i know i bite my fingernails
and i wear too many rings
i know i take too many showers
and i don't look good in jeans
i know i **** at playing guitar
and i'm far too quick to lie
i know i'm no good at counting the stars
and i'm ugly when i cry
i know there's no reason for you to love me
or even like me as a friend
but i clung onto you like a blood-******* leech
until our bitter end
i don't blame you for moving on
and i hope she makes you happy
thank you for showing me where i went wrong
in everything you hate about me.

you with the bruised half-moons under your eyes
from nights spent staring at the ceiling-
you with the unshaved legs
because most of your time in the shower is too tired to move-
you with the messy, untamed haircut
that nobody else likes (but you like it)
you with the low grades and empty bank account
because you can't focus, can't understand-
you with the parents who laugh about war
who flaunt their freedom as if they will never be affected
you with the friends who roll their eyes over death
who say things like "they're in a better place now"

who are you?

who are you, star-child?

"i'm me, of course" she answers, confused by the question.
her hands are a fake warm hue, her hair likewise, her skin flushed and angry.
(she has heard this question before, she already knows the answer.)

and there is another voice, screaming somewhere, sobbing and begging to be released, because-
the star-child has shoved her down, has shut her in a tight box and hidden her under years of dust and neglect.
the girl in the box is all white daisies and yellow t-shirts.
she is dancing in the rain and laughing when snowflakes catch on her eyelashes.
she is unbothered by thoughts of college or war, unbothered by budgets or relationships or the future.
she is holding hands with someone faceless, someone with a white smile splitting the black void of their face.
someone faceless is pulling his hand away-
someone faceless is turning his back.

"i'm me," the star-child answers, even as frozen tears fall and shatter on her hands. "who else would i be?"

"you with the tears soaking your pillow at night," i whisper,
"you with the silent screams into darkness,
"you with the selflessness that requires no one to see you hurting,
"you with the fear that he will look back and try to save you,
"you with the knowledge that you can't be saved-"

all stars burn up and fall,
some faster than others.

"i'm-" she begins again, but there are no words to finish her sentence this time.
her throat is closed up and her eyes are watering.
her hands are gray and dull, her hair likewise, her skin bleached.
there is no color left in this fallen star.
there is no life left in this fallen star.

you start to see things a lot differently once you set an expiration date on yourself.
there's beauty in the small things; the feel of warm dirt beneath bare feet, the gentle clucking of chickens, the brush of a cat's whiskers against your cheek. you suddenly want to watch every sunrise and sunset, to count every star, to take long walks through nature. you eat what you want and no longer care what people think because it doesn't matter, you will be dead in five days and no one will remember your name.
you are now nothing but a faceless silhouette, and no one cares enough to remember the little moments but you collect them like a child collecting seashells. you treasure every glance and exchanged word and half smile sent your way. you settle for the bare minimum because that's all you have ever received and will ever receive.
you find optimism in the dark moments; you **** a mosquito only to lay beside its crumpled body and watch a tiny ant drag it away, carrying three times its weight and you are jealous. you are jealous because you can't even handle yourself, and you are not strong enough for this world, not smart enough to figure out what you're supposed to do with your silly little life. you tip your chin back to the sky and wonder if the sun ever loved the moon, if the rose ever loved the daisy, if anyone could ever love you, and you're afraid that you'll never know.
but the fear within us is all the hope we are afraid to hope for. if you are not afraid, then you have no hope, and what are you then? free to die in silence and gray ashes and dead flowers from people who stopped coming to visit you long ago?
how could the sun love the moon, how could the rose love the daisy? if we are only fit to love those within our standards, then what is love really? chosen? picked at random? or is it a passion, a longing, a scrap of a song sung to a star?
and then comes the reality, that we are finite beings, and it doesn't matter if the rose and the daisy got their happily ever after, and it doesn't matter if the sun loved the moon because the moon loves you and the stars welcome you with open arms and yet you still cower on this pathetic earth, and it begs the question,

are you afraid to fly?

i saw my sister yesterday
and considered the idea that it could be the last time
considered it when we were saying goodbye
and i hugged her maybe a little too tight
i watched the sunset yesterday
when i was driving home
and something in me said, "don't go"
"there's more to this life than you'll ever know"
i thought my mind was made up
but as my life ticks lower
and time moves slower
and i'm just not sure anymore
i think that maybe i've found
something worth waiting for
someone worth living for