i try beading flowers from my fallen stars.
stars which once rose in the universe,
i created in my mind.
as alcohol steals the power to
moisten my lips, and my lungs breathe
the poison of the cigarettes,
every unnerved nerve of my body
resurrects from a self made hell;
and breathes with the night.
at dawn, i compel every axon in myself
to summon its strength from
voids unknown to me,
for the world questions my audacity
if i dare not be the prodigy
they invested in.
with the passage of time
as dawn bids farewell, i embrace the dusk
taking off my damaged mask, and
revealing wounds of shapes and sizes,
as i start a war with my flaws in
my reflection, i realize
unloving myself was the most paradoxical
form of self destruction;
for isnt hate born out of love?
often sunlight radiates through
my damaged self, burning my
cuts and abrasions, existing as a reminder,
that with great pain
comes a greater hunger for destruction.
i am still beading flowers from my fallen stars.