The stars regard me silently.
I disappoint them every single time.
And though to most things I am despairingly blind,
This I know (for I am my own):
I am unapologetically mine.
So tell me not to let the anger out,
to kick or scream or ‘shout-it-all-about’;
Do not pretend to know
what it means for my chin to tremble;
Do not tell me to take it slow
I make no pretense.
I am not uplifting or heartbreaking.
Or beautifully breathtaking.
I have no extraordinary,
if anything, its slightly depressing
—my suffocating mediocrity.
But don’t reduce me to a cautionary tale.
Or tell me where to go from here;
Don’t touch my arm and lay your sympathy out for sale.
You don’t understand,
I have fallen– its true–
headlong into an empty space.
But here I sing and paint
the stories of my childhood late;
the glint in my eyes the guiding light
in this dark, unfamiliar place.
For I am mine,
before I am of this world.
And I will find my grace along this path,
even if it isn’t the one I was meant to take.
And the stars may weep,
at a road this steep,
But I’ll fall no further,
I give you my word.
Yet the stars regard me silently still,
disappointed–as the people soon will.