I thought maybe I could write about rainbows and unicorns if I was happy,
but the dreams that I die in, are the best I’ve always had.
I have got a minute to be all or nothing,
but I don’t want the light to fight me when I am in the dark,
this is what it feels like to say goodnight but mean goodbye.
I will probably never find the meaning of life in other people,
since I’m still here, I have got to act as if I meant to be here.

I don’t know where you come from,
but when I look in the mirror,
it’s not myself anymore.

I don’t remember looking sad,
but the happiest memory I have is,
not being alive.

Perhaps there was a time I saw my reflection as the burning fire of a shooting star,
but right now,
I am not even the small piece of dust that travels through the Earth’s atmosphere.

I wish to see inside myself,
that’s the impossible.

I think there is still a spark of fire burning inside me somewhere,
but it won’t burn outside the invisible bars I have laid around myself.

Maybe one day, I could fuel the fire to burn brighter,
I have got a long way to go,
but I am ready to be the burning fire of a shooting star again.

There’s a lot of people around me,
because I know how to make them feel good.
How to make them feel good,
because I’ve had a lot of practice on myself,
because I often feel like ****.

The noise I hear and the sound I like is different.
I like to lay on bed and tell myself what I want to hear.
But if it’s not your voice, it’s white noise.

There’s a lot of people around me,
but you aren’t.

Simply,
when you’re gone,
I feel like ****.

I have recently discovered that I have an intruder inside my house.
It took me a while because he didn’t break in and enter.
He already had a key,
the key being me,
me losing my key.

Don’t get me wrong.
I check whether I locked the door,
one,
two,
three,
times before I leave my house every morning.

Sometimes,
I lose track of how many times throughout the day,
I check whether my keys are in my purse

When I return home in the night,
I repeat the same routine as,
in the morning.

Recently, the longest I have gone without protecting my house,
was when you walked into my life.
I held the door open for you,
and you didn’t even have to ask me to.

I don’t remember exactly when I gave you the duplicate key,
but I liked your frequent visits,
and how my pillows smelled like after you left.

But the last time you left,
you left the door open,
and you never came back.

It’s been perhaps a year,
since I have been trying to close the door.

I woke up to the sound of a creaking door one night.
I find you.
My house is on flames;
but all I could think about were the daffodils and the mantra of sorry you have brought back.

Then, I wake up in the morning and realize,
there never was an intruder.
My house is not burnt down,
but the daffodils in my kitchen table are very much newfangled.

They said that that broken people created the most beautiful things.
Maybe that’s why my parents had created me.
I would have called myself a china doll.
But then, you came along.
Then, you,
You.
And all of you together,
had me broken.

Touching a china doll is a sacred act.
As a six-year-old, that is a difficult concept to grasp.
While you ravished me, made me your wealth for five years,
I didn’t even know my worth.
But when I knew, I was already eleven-years-old,
you were rich; had no use of me anymore.
And I was scratched.  

Then came you,
when you did, I was already at an edge.
I had forgotten what it was to be expensive when,
all I think about is the scratches on my body.
Thus,
You barely touched me, and I was on the ground.

I often think, I let the last of you happen.
Whilst being cracked on the ground, it’s hard to be expensive.
So, I didn’t scream.
I didn’t object.
I sat there and took it.

But, I was on the verge of finding my gold,
to piece me back together again.

Now I need to start over again.
I am coming for it,
when I do, I will piece myself back together.

Time is an abstract.
These days I often have trouble remembering things.
I am writing to remember a significant chunk of my life. You.

Two years ago, you told me that I’d end up a deeply unhappy person, if I was,
who I was.

Two years ago, today I know that, I didn’t know what I was wearing.
I wore depression.
I wore an amour of sadness that I called “my guard”,
which I deliberately kept up.
My guard that was embroidered with the finest class of anxiety.
You hated it.

Two years ago, you were swimming in my sea,
while I couldn’t even dip my toe into your lake,
because of “my guard”.
Perhaps that’s why I had to hear it repeatedly.
“You’re going to end up a deeply unhappy person, if you are, who you are.”
I’d tell you that’s the reason why you fell in love with me in the first place.
Because, I, was your challenge.  

Today, I remember that I am going to be a deeply unhappy person if was, who I was.
Today, I am giving you answers you always craved.
You tell me that I am playing a blame game, and that’s okay.

You see, two years later, I still have “my guard”.
I am happy, unhappy.
But, I am not going to let a passing fit become who I am.
Perhaps, I am slower than the pace you needed me to be at.
One day, I will catch up,
and you will be sorry.

If I had to describe you, I’d describe you as a short Summer
Fact one: I hated Summer.
My most distant memories were that, I feared summer.
The heat intimidated me.
My mom took me out to the beach once on a warm Summer.
She, herself, had mixed feelings about summer.
Then, I clanged on to her so hard because the Sun refused to look away from me.
Mom made the night rise earlier.

Fact two: You came and went.
I heard people talk.
Summer meant fun.
Fun meant drugs.
Drugs meat jail, I learnt later.
Which is where you went hiding in Autumn, Winter and Spring.

Fact three: Summer always complains.
When I refused to answer Summer’s calls to go hiking, Summer would constantly message me to come out to go for a swim.
When I tell Summer that I hated the Sun, he’d weep about how I loved all but him.
How can I love the Sun when my name means Shooting Star?

Fact Four: I don’t have one.
Insignificantly,
Shooting Star,
Your only daughter.

Most kids would dress their barbie dolls and have tea parties at the age of six.
I am a somber person.
At the age of six, I’d often lay in bed and think of ways my marriage would come to an end if I were to find a Prince Charming.
I learned from my mother; two divorces made an unhappy woman.
After three years of marriage,
I would still wake my husband at 3am and ask if he still loved me.
“Silly girl, of course I do.”
We’d go back to bed, his arms securely wrapped around my waist.
I felt utterly safe.
Now,
I can’t pinpoint when all these “late night shifts” started just how I can’t pinpoint when I first started being depressed.
Then came traveling frequently for “conferences” and with it my panic attacks.
I found “her” more than 6 months after it begun.
Now, I’d often stare at her Facebook page.
She had dimples and looked so jolly in every picture.
Me,
Eyebags and morbid.
Every time I looked at her, I would forgive you.
Sometimes, I’d “coincidentally” be at the coffee shops she goes to.
Then it was the clothing boutiques.
Before I knew it, I am wearing clothes she’d wear.
My makeup is done eerily similar to hers.
Today, marks five years of our marriage.
You said you’d come home for dinner.
That, I, cooked the best meals.
You’d bring a bottle of wine.
We’d dance to the first song we ever did to.
**** till dawn breaks.
11pm.
No show.
The food is cold.
The house is cold.
I am cold.
At this point, If I could, I was willing to strip out of my skin and wear hers.
12am and there is a creak of the door.
You come in, take me in to your arms, hands on my waist just like any night, two years ago.
I can’t really focus on the mantra of your apologies,
because
  a)   We both reeked of the same perfume
  b)   We both reeked of the same perfume
Perhaps, I have already started shredding my skin.

Someone once told me that I am a slow song starting to accelerate.  
At Larghissio, I have a calm demeanor.
Not the calm of a warm sunny day.
But a somber calm where I slowly slit a person's throat whilst listening to classical music.
Grave is where things gets mixed with feelings but where I refused to acknowledge it.
The trend today is dead inside.
But hey, the shade my mother threw at me about my grades during dinner is at the back of my head.
Largo is a little dangerous.
My father is trying to communicate to the four-year-old little girl that was swallowed down along with his drugs.
I am no longer dead inside when I acknowledge that it's wrong.
Adagietto is a fancy word.
So is dementia.  
Now, it's harder to stand in front of the grandfather who can't remember me.
Hurt is an emotion.
Andante means I am hurt.
With hurt, I think one loses rationale.
Moderato is for moderate.
But, at moderato, hurt has led me to my anxiety cabin.
Hereon, the walls I have created around me becomes a physical embodiment when all I do is stay in my room.
I want to slow down the pace.
But now, I am starting to hear more than one song.
Some of it, I am singing on my own.
All of it, at Allegro.
My blanket was my hero at Allegro.
I named it 'Depression' and I wore it all the time to cover my ears.
As for rationale, there being none, I found myself and all my songs at Vivace.
The most vivid was my mothers'.
She'd often peek through my walls.
Sing a heavy metal song about my disobedience of wearing depression.
When she got tired, she'd stop singing.
Now, I am left with my songs at Allegro and the distant voice of my grandfather who sings for himself at Larghissio.
The more I try to grasp the lullaby of my grandfather, the faster my songs rise to Vivace.
I am strong but not strong enough to sing multiple songs at Vivace.
Respectively, often these days, I fear that all of my songs would abruptly stop at Presto.
But, on most days, I think about falling back to the next song on your playlist, and it doesn't matter at what tempo.

When I think of you, the first thing that comes to my mind is,
"he broke my ribs once, don't ask me how";
Now, in no way shall we consider you a violent *******,
because
a) I like it when you choke me
b) I like it when you choke me
Now, when I think of you, I often think of the stars
Not because I am losing the sight of the moon.
You are the moon.
I, of course the stars.
Perhaps exploding ***** of gas isn't what you look for in a woman.
I could never be the earth; full of life.
But I will tell you,
If I looked at you once, I'd never look away.
So,
I chose to look away.