Starfall

I used to see myself as a star

a beam of light

blooming everything in her path.

I would walk into a room

and faces would brighten before I even spoke. 

There was a time

life felt kind, or close enough to it.

I believed I was a rarity

a flower seen only once in years,

something almost sacred. 

Untouched. Impossible. 

But slowly

my roots began to loosen.

Something in the soil shifted. 

What once held me began to reject me. 

My petals withered.

My light starved. 

And I did everything I could to save myself.

I fought, but it was too late. There was no hope of resurrection. 

I was already dead. 

I was slipping,

falling into a void faster than I could name it.

When did it change?

When did giggles turn into mockery?

When did their laughters sharpen into blades

that carved deeper into my heart

than any will I had left to live?

When did friendly faces grow deaf to my quiet pleas? 

When did the world decided I was better off a spectacle

than something worth saving? 

You wish upon a shooting star,

burdening it with the responsibility of granting your desires

without acknowledging that it is burning itself alive

for the privilege of being seen.

Watch me explode into fragments of disappointment.

Unanswered questions.

Unfulfilled dreams.

Admire the beauty of the fall.

Call it poetic, growth.

Call it whatever helps you sleep.

Ignore the truth.

Ignore the revelation.

The only light left in me

was the fire consuming me from within.

I had been burning for so long 

I just mistook the smoke for glory. 

The last thing I heard 

were the voices of the same people

who once smiled at my presence. 

They were laughing. 

And somewhere between the fall and the impact 

I realized I was never the miracle.

I was the spectacle.

A story passed around the table during thanksgiving. 

A cautionary tale. 

I was the joke all along.