writing

Blood and Stars

Once, we were young and beautiful and that was enough. Our big hearts dragged us around and sometimes we stumbled on our way, but following always the pull. Our late-night and home-made, wandering sentimentality. Now, we are older, aware, and we are not enough. Our hearts, like the fruit we tried and failed to juggle, has fallen to the floor. We are bruised flesh. We are watching other broken things form patterns and problems we cannot fathom. The intricacies of our interactions do not provide a stable framework to love without pain. All our mythologies and mortalities mix: we are both blood and stars, we are our disappointment. We cannot speak a truth we do not understand.

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