Rough Edges

I wish that I could believe that
we are made from stardust
because it's the most beautiful thing
I have ever heard.

But science could never
be beautiful to me.
Just all the things it tries to explain.

I don't want to be told that:

my eyes really can't pour rainbow sadness on the floor,
that nobody else sees.
I don't want to know that they are just bottomeless brown.

my heart is just an organ
that can't be touched by my ever scratching fingers.

that my first fourteen dying years
and only one living year are tangled in my ribcage--
that it's not possible.

that it's impossible for
me to sometimes not fit those six
characterstics of living things.



--

And sometimes I want to be broken
or cracked along the edges slowly traveling to the center

because it gives you an excuse to yourself
and to the world
as to why you aren't good enough.

and it gives yourself an excuse
to hear someone say I love you to you.

and because it's home base
the point of origin,
no matter how dark it was
sometimes it is missed.


even if it is better to be blind folded in the light,
at least in my case.