She calls me a star; her star. She says I shine like her personal sun. This makes me giggle, because she has no idea that she has our roles reversed. She is my shimmering sun. I live to see her shine.
She still calls me a star. Sometimes. When the time and mood is right, when the fiend is nowhere to be found. She calls me a star, which is ludicrous. Because stars make no sound. At least not here billions of miles away. From here, they just sit, silent and shining, a warmth and a comfort. They are everything I do not want to be. I am here, within an arm's reach. I am loud. I am screaming. I am standoffish and agitation.
I refuse to be silent. I refuse to shine. I refuse to do anything that is not in an effort to save her. To save the innocent, ignorant sun. She can be silent—I'd rather she is. I'll be the noise. I'll fill the sky till nothing else is visible. Till her light is entirely blocked out. Till she is safe and alive. I will go out in a blaze of struggle. I will fight with tooth and nail and shout and clamor. If I am a star, I am a black one. All-consuming, humming with reserved energy. A giant mass, not looked upon with wonder but with dread.
