Most days
My voice box is a mirror
That most people get tired of looking into.
Most days,
I carry my sadness
On the backs of my elbows.
Even if I can't see it, I can feel it.
It brushes against the sleeves of my shirts,
And rams itself into walls
and door ways
And the ribcages of boys who don't know the meaning of "no". I can feel the undertones of his melancholy in my bones even still,
But this is not a poem about him.
This is about my sidewalk soul.
Stepped on and walked over but still here.
This is about my solar system of a body,
I spin my insecurities into one marvelous Galaxy.
And when it collapses in on itself
There won't be anything left but white noise.
There will be no picket fence.
No glowing locket
No treasure to find
Nothing.
And in this,
There is a quiet beauty.
A wallflower faith
That you can't give up the fight
Even if you know you're going to lose eventually
Life isn't about figuring out how not to die.
It's about creating something that will stay alive when you are gone
Artists die.
Art doesn't.
Writers die.
Books don't.
I hope to one day be great enough
To leave something here
That is worth remembering
Even if I am not worth remembering
Remember me.
Please.
That way
When my galaxies die out.
And my stars stop shining
There will be something left to say "She was worth remembering"
Even if it's only for the night,
Somebody,
Please,
Remember me
//alternatively titled "Stardust" or "14-Year-Old-Existentialism"
Murmur
By antisocialsocialite
In which the poet spills her guts for everybody to see More