humans are often compared to stars. but i never understood why. i always denied calling myself a star for i never shone brightly, i just existed.
now that i think about it, perhaps i am a star that's burning in order to survive – indulging in self destruction just to stay alive.
it's not that i live because i can't die, or perhaps it is, i don't know. i just know that i wouldn't mind if the ground cracks open – molten lava swallowing me whole. stars never asked to live this way, did they?
i'm just waking up in a body that's shrinking everyday– bones prodding out like thorns that i can count with my fingers bones that can barely hold me up– i don't even want them to hold me up anymore.
i'm nothing but skin stretched across bones, clusters of self-inflicted nebulae sprawled over it. science says that stars are born within nebulae then can i make a constellation out of them? a constellation that comprises of all my mistakes. it shouldn't be a mistake if i give up then, because boldly giving up is as courageous as not giving up.
i don’t remember any violent beginnings, but i do know that i’m constantly burning, burning, burning. i wouldn't mind causing a supernova but you see, no matter what i say, i'm still a human. my light constantly flickers but if that can be a source of a splendid view to someone else, if it can be a source of comfort to them, then i'll continue burning, burning, burning i’ll continue to combust until my words become muddied with smoke – till it's all gone.