how a little girl lies

Sunday, April 9, 2017

I was told that the emptiness in my chest was not boredom, but familiarity.
that the feeing in my gut wasn’t fear, but electricity.

I was told to plan my wedding day when I was eight,
forcing myself to lie
when I had to describe 
the man next to me on the cake.

I assumed that everyone pushed down the fear
of sharp edges and low voices,
that everyone felt warm at the sight of
soft smiles and floral wrists.

I ignored the lightning when skin touched skin.
Assuming the resulting fire was friendly. 

But then I woke up and saw that I was an imposter.

I tucked myself in, trying to occupy less space
so you wouldn’t throw me into space,
toss me among the stars
because the fire in my chest is a sun
and her smile is a supernova:
colors and light seeping out,
making darkness light,
making my head feel light.

so throw me into a vacuum,
shoot me into the sky.
I’ve been holding my breath all my life
and I’m sure that I’ll be fine.

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