Supernova PSA, Part 2.
Who are you to tell me who I am? Who made you the king of thought and conscience? When did I let you make me start doubting myself so deeply, I craved your admiration and acceptance?
You, who dimmed my light. You, who spat in my face while I was on my knees with my heart in my hands. You, who tell me my art is worthless and my mind too damaged to offer anyone a future.
You are the most broken of us all. I wonder, when did those cracks in your foundation turn into crumbling splinters you could feel pricking your skin late at night? Who was the person who took a hammer and rained down blow after blow? When did violence and pain twist their roots into you so deeply, your heart was left in bloody shreds?
I hope you know you are more than a broken toy left discarded on the curb. You are more than a punching bag or a placeholder. You are more than a passing thought or a brain-rattling backhand. You are more than these words on my pages.
And so am I.
How dare you try to sway my hips with your honeyed promises, all the while your fastidious hands attempting to mold me into the model you wish me to be. I am cold fire that recognizes those I love and admire, whilst reducing everyone else to ash smears on the side of the road.
I no longer recognize you.
I am the shadows that cling to your walls. I am the blazing glory of shooting stars and raining meteorites. I am the taste of blood on your tongue and the smell of saltwater in your lungs. I am both a master of my darkness and a bringer of light. I am a supernova.
The question is, who the fuck are you?
s. k. g.
