each solitary shell encasing each glowing miniature bulb
embodies a memory
a feeling
a blur of seasonal rememberance associated with someone whose face you can't quite put your finger on
blue : sadness
red : anger
green : jealousy
yellow : happiness
concocted and connected through a dense cord the colour of coal we neglect to remember holds each lights hand and ties their souls together
Reflecting shadows on shards of broken glass baubels and the cheek of an ornate angel too delicate to cry
Their colour coded combination presenting a haze of neon and cheap affordable replicas of essential festive decor
But deflect your attention from detail and analysis
Caress the sight as a whole and take care not to delve too deeply into the secret each dull glowing ember might wish to divulge to you through whispers in a dark room left empty for too long
Before the dimming is inevitable
the loss is unnoticeable
it's secrets
unattainable
At least it faded before the power went out

my shy, hesitant frame was first taken to obligatory ballet lessons when it was only 5 years old
the pale pink clinging leotards and scuffed leather slippers decorated with neat string bows would always outweigh the strain of my mothers scraping nails against my scalp in order to achieve the perfect ballerina bun seconds before each and every lesson in the vastly daunting and vacant room
where our innocent and wide-eyed little selves were our sole company in the face of the towering glass pane staring straight back at us
the sheen of the never-ending polished pole stretched right across the middle
and we strained to try and make ourselves grow taller than each other
to look like real dancers practising their pliés for hours upon hours
and I made my small body bear the unbearable
the strung out aching the myriad of assorted stretches lit in my weak limbs as I tried to train my fingers to kiss my tippy toes
like a desperate attempt at mimicking the distance between fingertips in The Creation of Adam
always almost within reach
but never meeting
soon enough the pink and the pretty and the pleasing image this form of dance appeared to me to be was no longer enough
and the sparkles and sequins and garish glitter costumes began to fade along with reflecting rainbow coloured stage lights and 4 years worth of overpriced Academy Lessons and Exams

I guess I gave up on touching my toes

For the first time since I can remember I felt like I was graced with the same regality as those who sit on thrones built from bricks of solid self-esteem, sealed with the plaster of confidence.

Every sweet silver tongued sentence that dripped from their mouths like honey helped to sow the seeds of yet another flower on my crown, blooming with the promise of an ever elusive beauty I have never had the honour of meeting before, until my crown blossomed with the sweetest scent and the prettiest petals you had ever seen.

These buds would encourage this forbidden nectar to fill in the gaps, to flow around and in between every crack and crevice in my self-polluted soul, mending, often overflowing leaving distinct pale pink kisses on the apples of my cheeks, and the dreaded dimple that is so often hidden would emerge from the shadows the moment that sweet nectar touched it and it was no longer afraid of showing.

Then you, sir, with your eyes shying from stardust could only speed the process, equipped with nothing but a rusty toolbox consisting of rosebud lips and blistered hands I know would never dare break my fragile stem, but be the foundations for my desperate, clinging vines to grasp so maybe someday I could taste the sunlight coating my lips, and veiling my skin the same way it did that one time I actually felt beautiful.

My legs were solid and strong, making just the right contact with the earth for me to keep my balance, my stomach a valley with just the right kind of hills and dips for my weary eyes to travel on, and I was blessed with a head held high paired with piercing eyes that only said that I wore all my flowers proud upon my crown.

Even if seeds of doubt still plant themselves in the caverns of your mind telling you that they will probably wilt the next day, you still water them with the tears you have left because ******* they are prettier alive.

Suddenly the sweet sound of ‘thank you’s echoed from my mouth to replace the bitter, constant taste of denial, and loathing took the form of loving and I embraced every second of it.

When someone at long last sees the galaxies in their own eyes and the pure luminescence of their soul, why must it be cruelly crushed by comments determined to blow them off course when they finally know exactly where they want to drop anchor, what is wrong if I decide to start with myself because I am living with me for the rest of my life and I realised I had better get comfortable. Self-respect, self-esteem, self-confidence, it all begins and ends with you, you are not just a chapter, you are the whole freaking book, so allow kind words to embed themselves in your skin and etch their outlines on your bones and it’s a pretty good way to start the first paragraph.

So let me be an empress, let me be a queen, no longer the princess of low self-esteem, rip off the nametag that reads ‘handle with care’ because you’re not breathing right you are not even aware of how much you are worth, step into your skin, accept every beautiful inch of you because you’re not going to win a battle where you fight by beating yourself, your body is not a warzone, but darling if you breathe in all the dirt you can take you’ll be exhaling the prettiest of flowers.

I know that it’s hard, but trust me, honey, you will grow so tall, you will blossom my friend, even though you may fall once, or twice while you climb.. keep your eyes fixed on that sun, and you’ll be just fine.