They are made of stars. Made of celestial beings, ever-present and never failing to make people gape at them in awe. There’s that unwavering need - itching under my skin - of desire to be selfish. To linger my hands on their flawed, moonlit skin. To be able to cup their heavenly face, to be able to peer into their starry eyes up close; I have never kissed a constellation but I would very much like to. Maybe my love for them is planetary and astronomical and maybe all I can do is orbit around them

one day anxiety will devour me whole and spit me back, shivering and still unsure

i cling to these memories like how a child would with her mother's skirt. gently but not harshly, too afraid to rip it to seams or fray its warmth. it's a hideous skirt, mom. i fondly look back at it anyway, unable to fully let go

i don't like change. i'd rather stand in the ocean, sinking my feet into the sand, cold water mixing with mushy sand - it seeping into the warm flesh of my being. i will never move from here. familiarity is what home is to me