I Envy The Stars

i envy the stars

I sit with wide doe-like eyes, shaded like the cold dirt below me, hands folded neatly yet stirring restlessly.

Thumbs swipe over one another, tracing how my skin forms and my heartbeat thumps when I squeeze my hands.

My eyes always drift back to the sky, back to where my mind can wander.

I've been hyper-fixated on the stars as of late. 

The way they shine, putting on a show. 

Even the singular star in the sky has a purpose, used as a wish

I envy the stars.

The sky holds plenty, some of which I'm not yet aware of, and may never be.

I asked God one day, asked the stars for green eyes like the grass or to be able to write poems about something other than grief

Something other than the debilitating way my heart seems to sabotage itself,

The way my mind curls tight vines around all things supposedly good

The way nobody asks for the pain they have been handed, 

The way nobody wants to have to piece themselves together and fix something they never broke

I envy the way some are seamlessly able to bounce back from situations

The way they can come back, shining brightly despite it all. 

Always there, even in the cold, night sky, they can be found.

A winking reminder of what is there, what could be but I cannot seem to achieve.

I envy the stars.

apricity (n.) The warmth of the sun in the winter

I have a hard time not falling into the precipice and stereotypical blame game humans seem to play,

The blades of grass tickle my skin but no belly laughs slip past my lips,

Soft clouds and fluttering lashes, I trace my fingers upon my knuckles,

Bumps and ridges, mountains and hills.

I want to blame the feeling that resides in my chest on the rolling chill,

The months pass and the seasons dwindle,

The fine line between the warm summer days and the cold winter nights split me in two,

Yet the cut is uneven.

I love the warmth but I fear of being burned,

I love being cold but yet I fear the chill,

Two sides of the same coin I constantly seem to flip,

I love the apricity, the feeling of the warmth of the sun in the winter,

But I have a hard time finding the chill in the summer.

I find a hard time seeking and grasping a balance between the two,

Without it I'm sure to fail, all things tumbling right out,

Spilling, making a mess,

I make a mess.

So I stick to mopping endlessly, soaking up and wringing out the coarse strings into the bucket only to dip them again,

It is a never-ending cycle, the process,

The chore,

Myself and my tasks.

So I sit behind a wall of denial,

I sit while others blame the winter while I blame the sun,

Blame the way inconsistencies mess with my head,

Blame the way the blankets of green fail to be a haven.

Blame the way I feel even when blanketed in the warmth of the earth and the delicate hug of life is supposed to alleviate that feeling,

Bumps and ridges, mountains and hills,

What a chore,

But I must climb.