I am a collapsing star.
The night sky whirls around me as I fall, creating a unique masterpiece behind me, wishing something would stop my breakneck descent. Wishing someone would understand, that underneath all the fiery gas, there’s an ice cold heart that needs some love.
I am a flickering flame.
One moment alive, one moment strong, the next vanished from sight. Oxygen is needed, but also feared. What if I grow? What if there’s nothing to fuel the fire that is my soul? Will I always warm people, and yet keep them at a distance? Is there no way to subdue my soul? Is it’s always all or nothing?
I am a dripping stalactite.
Moist, cold, dangerous. Any moment able to collapse on someone’s head, always reminding them of my presence by a ceaseless drip, an annoying patter. Hidden from the light of the sun, embracing the darkness and living with others of my kind. Yet, solitary and growing, not letting the silence bother my own song.
I am a slice of mica.
Beautiful to those who take the time to dig through the grime to find me, yet not precious to those who look towards what the world says. Thin, fragile, yet strangely resistant. Reflective, showing the world a screwed picture of itself, hoping that someday it’ll see that it’s opinions aren’t always as they should be.
I am a diving eagle.
Swooping, talons reaching. The water skimming beneath my feet, the prey firmly clamped. Food, freedom, and fresh air growing my feathers and my independence. Selecting my certain friends, but still soaring alone, there is no reason for me to be afraid. I am the the top predator.
I am the mole.
Hiding away from the real world, embracing the grime, worms, and darkness of the world in which I live. Squinting when I reach the sunshine, wondering why anyone would want to live in the harsh light. The dirt is so soft, so cool, it is everything that I am used to. And yet the sun still has a certain, burning charm.
I am the rain drop.
Falling far and fast, landing softly on the parched earth, allowing myself to be totally soaked up. No longer my own person, no longer free to breathe, too busy trying to help heal your pain. Lost, parched in the process, too moldable, too eager to fill your empty cup.
I am the guard dog.
Sniffing out danger, protecting my people. Hating when they don’t listen to my warnings, hurting when they’re hurt. Silly people, if they just trusted my nose, we’d all be happy. My bark is silent, my bite devastating, don’t push, don’t pull. Stay away, no one will be hurt, no one will feel the strength of my jaws.
I am the whispering wind.
All my problems, too shy to tell those around me, so I’ll just move the leaves, whispering through them. Can you hear the plea between my words? The pain beneath my jokes? Are you soothed by my gentle words? How did I find the words to say to ease your pain if I have not been through the pain myself?
And yet, though I am all those things,
I am still