All she wanted was to be insignificant.
She’d wish on a star, but that luxury is reserved for extravagant souls.
So she’d wish on a rock. She wished on a rock that she could live underneath one.
See,
Star-wishes are buried in the hearts of 'noticeable' people.
people who can bare to be seen-
Star-wishing is a pastime for dead men walking, talking
like they call any shots at all in life.
She would have rather had her limbs and mind mended in with the rest of the world-
A number code branded into the back of her skull anytime she had the nerve to laugh-
A reminder of her smallness anytime she had the audacity to be seen.
to smile.
to breathe.
she only knew numbers.
ONE broken hearted girl trying to read the storybook of her life.
TWO beautiful, angelic pages ripped from the binding before she could finish the lines.
That’s THREE tales of heartbreak in the past five years pages that made her decide she resented being "big".
She decided she was a walking target, an aiming post for all things destructive and volatile.
God must have seen her being too vibrant, too tall, “too much of something,” she assumed.
So she’d shrivel.
She’d hide in the corners of clock hands, too small to be seen & behind the means of time.
She figured if she was never noticed again, perhaps she’d keep what was left of this storm…
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