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Writing

Constellations

I cannot see the stars from here. There is not enough clarity, they are drowned by their manmade likeness. I miss those nights I would lie sleepless beneath them, the broken sky my only companion. I miss how they would still my breath, bring peace to my frayed soul. I miss my dissolution into the constellations.

I wonder when I stopped trusting them with myself. When I started to build these cages to protect me (or keep me trapped, I’m not sure which). I cannot see the stars from within them. When did I begin to hide myself from them? When was peace replaced with suspicions and a weight across my back? Like Atlas, cursed to hold the entire sky. The stars have stopped looking for me and I have never felt so cold in the darkness.

I no longer feel taken care of, only judged from afar. Every poor decision I make becomes an isolated event, a stain upon only myself, the only one who cannot be absolved. Thus self-isolation seems the natural answer. After all, why look for stars that are not there?

I no longer have any place in their constellation. My star has faded, exploded into bleeding darkness, and the story they tell looks better without me in it. I am void and tearing through the night that has become me. I am destructive, but I am free. I am bleeding out, but at least my tears no longer stain the sky.

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