I don’t want to make it poetic or beautiful
because it’s not.
It’s grimy
like the wet dirt on the bottom of my feet.
Like water pouring from a glass,
the sky cried and I did too.
And just like the glass, when dropped
I would break too.
But I’ve been dropped before
unlike this metaphorical glass.
So I’ve been broken for a while now.
Like the piece I took from this broken drink.
The one I used to slice up my skin
in times of need.
And like that piece of glass that I lost,
I’m lost too.
The sky screamed with the rumble of thunder,
and I screamed along with that haunting beat.
Black like the night and black like my soul.
My feelings have long gone cold,
or so I like to say.
But the truth is that you can’t just stop feeling.
It’s not possible.
Humans were given this by the Universe,
and like the Christians like to say,
“GOD MAKES NO MISTAKES.”
But sometimes I think
I’m God’s “Get Out of Jail Free” card.
A girl and a boy in one body,
lover of all.
A genius and idiot in one mind,
afraid of all.
The Universe gifted, and cursed, me
with the ability to feel like no other.
I can feel the blood in my veins.
The neurons on my nerves.
The protons upon my nucleus.
Like matter, I am not created nor destroyed.
I only change form.
Like the galaxy, I am unexplored,
and like self-harm and suicide and anorexia,
I am not poetic nor beautiful.