#asteriera

pretty is a word that belongs to girls with bright smiles and locks golden like the sun and skin pale like the moon and the universe in their eyes. who could swallow the sun and nobody would even blink. pretty fits in the dimples that curve in the side of her cheek. pretty belongs to the magic of midday, a warm hand curling around your wrist and a fluttering pulse.

november is autumn’s rattling breath desperately trying to hold onto a life it knows it can’t keep

heaven itself is lost in your smile, but i still can’t find my way out of hell.

you once called me a river - rushing and hurtling over itself like the ocean contained, untamed, bleeding salt and sorrow. they once called you an earthquake - ground-splitting, dividing up the jagged corners of the world like it belonged to you. we were once called a waterfall, shattering the earth in a rush of roiling tides, until our voices echoed water and our hearts were buried in the sand.

a dream dangles:     - the sun, flickering rays     - wings, gleaming     - the sea, salt-spitting a dream laughs:     - the sun smiles, bright and bitter. he reaches down a bit more.     - wings flutter, an angel returning to the heavens.     - the sea boils, thundering over itself. a dream flies:     - the sun burns – wantingwantingwanting is a white hot, searing             and scorching with blind eyes.     - wings feather, gold edging into the light, blistering into ichor.     - the sea calms itself, hissing with mortal’s touch. a dream falls:     - the sun recoils, a twisted mess of a god remaining.     - wings scar & singe, a boy desperately grappling onto the edges of           freedom.     - the sea waits.