Perfectly Imperfect Galaxy

I keep burying every piece of our fallen stars inside my sketches because maybe then I’d be okay with the scars you left inside. Maybe then I’d be okay with the never ending memories of your hands tracing every sketch I made in my sketchbook, why did it feel like you’re tracing my veins? 

I keep stargazing at the 22 plastic stars hanging from my walls, because I cannot dare look at the 22 stars we named together every night. I cannot dare look at the swirls of galaxies I painted at my wall, because for once I was jealous. I was jealous how perfectly beautiful the swirls of these galaxies were, I was jealous of how you loved them. Under the same 22 stars we named together, your golden eyes were boiling and your voice was black. You told me how much you hate that I am stuck in a forever ugly swirl, you told me how much you hated how pathetic I am for needing to hold your hand a bit tighter, your venomous words stung harder than my therapist’s prescription. 

How could you? How could the only star I ever loved, tucked in my photographs turn out to be a self-exploding rocket ? How could the only one who saw my nude soul set fire to it? I hope you are well, I hope you are well now that I am not. You were the most precious thing in my jewelry box but your rustiness rubbed off me and now I am a rusty golden pallet of blues. And for that, I shall not apologize if my art is too raw, if I like flaunting my scars on canvases, if I draw my monsters and stick around with my demons. 

I’m okay in my own milky way with my imperfectly made galaxy.