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I'm not stellar. I don't flare like the sun when the clouds break apart, cotton smoke-signals shadowing the haunted souls below as I pass them by. In fact, I'm more likely to cover the beams than let them trespass on my kindness; I've always handled the night better, but I can't find it in me to boot the moon from the sky. And if you were wondering, I have a nasty love-affair with the stars, but I don't claim to wake up with their wishes coated like dust upon my hair or their twinkles blinding my eyes like the chaos of summertime sparklers. I might be unique (I often wear the wrong smiles or hear misspelled words in people's speeches), but I'll never claim to be an alien (unfortunately, the only thing wrong with me is the glitter in my blood and the scent of oranges beneath my fingerprints). And no, it's not the light reflected on my pupils that makes the world so wet. It's just my tears. You know...the ones I've never been able to shed because the words that should escort them down my cheeks are stuck in traffic between my toes. I have a thousand pains to my four-syllable name, but my heart never lets me claim even one. They're lodged in my veins, screaming for someone to notice...but the world sees only skin and denim. Even microscopes can't put in sentences the fragments of my soul.
I'm not lunar. I don't S.O.S my message across a sky of charcoal and chocolate syrup, blue-and-red airplane lights forgotten to the eyes below because they're too busy staring at cracked sidewalks to hear the static of my heartache. In fact, my soul is crowded with "Iwishupontwelvecomets" and "Ipraymypulsetokeep" dreams, the chalkboard of my mind overflowing with the white of errant words because I only understand the things my fingers can't explain. I've always been organized with fireflies and nightowls, but the flickering has faded and I can't find a hoot to follow home. And in case you were wondering, I've always loved the feel of dew beneath my heels, but it never paints me perfect like I ask it to. Instead, my pants soak to the knees and I cut my hands on sharp-cornered rocks while cartwheeling down the road, but I don't claim to find the beauty in another sunrise's failings. I may be different (my pupils are rimmed with black and my skin glows in vivid patches under UV rays), but I'll never come undone (my threads are tattered but never broken, like the holes in my favorite jeans. Ripped at the seams.) And no, it's not the darkness that puts the demons in my eyes. I've just seen too many things to be comfortable in such tight spaces. And a shriek is building on my tongue, but my heart won't let it out. And I'm starting to understand these haunting lullabyes...they're telling me it's too late to come to grips with who I am.
I'm not lunar. I don't S.O.S my message across a sky of charcoal and chocolate syrup, blue-and-red airplane lights forgotten to the eyes below because they're too busy staring at cracked sidewalks to hear the static of my heartache. In fact, my soul is crowded with "Iwishupontwelvecomets" and "Ipraymypulsetokeep" dreams, the chalkboard of my mind overflowing with the white of errant words because I only understand the things my fingers can't explain. I've always been organized with fireflies and nightowls, but the flickering has faded and I can't find a hoot to follow home. And in case you were wondering, I've always loved the feel of dew beneath my heels, but it never paints me perfect like I ask it to. Instead, my pants soak to the knees and I cut my hands on sharp-cornered rocks while cartwheeling down the road, but I don't claim to find the beauty in another sunrise's failings. I may be different (my pupils are rimmed with black and my skin glows in vivid patches under UV rays), but I'll never come undone (my threads are tattered but never broken, like the holes in my favorite jeans. Ripped at the seams.) And no, it's not the darkness that puts the demons in my eyes. I've just seen too many things to be comfortable in such tight spaces. And a shriek is building on my tongue, but my heart won't let it out. And I'm starting to understand these haunting lullabyes...they're telling me it's too late to come to grips with who I am.
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Different?
Muchly so.
Like it?
You decide.
Written partially at work and partially in class. Forgive me any awkward phrases. I like playing with language.
October 2009
Muchly so.
Like it?
You decide.
Written partially at work and partially in class. Forgive me any awkward phrases. I like playing with language.
October 2009
© 2009 - 2024 betwixtthepages
Comments20
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Different, but all the more lovely because of it.