Kinda abstract and short…but I just got this drive to write something, anything down…
Speak, child, speak. There is a star on your lips. Can't you hear it crying?
Points into flesh, bruises into ringed stained, sweat-flushed universe…
It is too abstract a shape to be ignored.
Breathe. And let the tattoo heal you. It is only centimetres from your blood. In you, inside you, rushing, rushing…rushing.
Mother. Father. Blood. Rushing, rushing…flow? One and the same. It results in you.
And the star, don't forget the star.
Can you live up to the sign on your cheek? Ah, that's the real prize isn't it? A glimpse into failure and it frightens you doesn't it? You came here to love and be loved, a gem in a constellation that glittery acutely without you. And now you're their leading star-sign.
Again with the star…
You can't escape the cruel borders of its pattern. It is just there. Surely fate touched you that today, tomorrow, yesterday, someday, any day…why not today? Things are always happening and you push them into effect. Sometimes you are even the cause. But still…this all shines, out, attached to your life. And then it flickers.
Spirit. Cold, cruel, vindictive darkness. Shallow, petty, hate, hate, hate. You hate and rage and tear oh, so badly into it. That thing. A thing with a name and a label, one you fiercely strike into it. Batter, hammer, still hate.
Mother. Dead. Murderer.
So, so angry. And a past so troubled, lapping at the edge of the thing that keeps you ticking, keeps you wishing, keeps you safe…as a matter of principle.
Murderer.
No, not murderer. Not killer. Coincidence. Sorrow. Regret. The only monster here is what you make of yourself. It almost struck you down with heated claws.
You see tears. You blink. And the stars takes a running jump.
It's your life. You talked yourself into living it. So just deal with it and be happy. Shine. Is that not what all mothers want for their children?
But you can't. Mother was different. Special. And she is inside you, red-plated and enclosed in those little veins that flare up when your hands reach for the handles. And you feel it, more strongly and keenly than ever. A hole where there was once something, anything. A supernova?
Raise your hand up. Touch the star on your cheek and know…that it is only skin-deep. And you are less superficial than that. You have the burning deep down inside you. Let it flare. Smile. And reach for the handles.