metamorphosis

thinking of yourself as anything other than a human takes away the pain of reality. 

according to my own disillusioned reality, i'm a galaxy. pieces of me are scattered

across the sky, each a bright, hot reminder of my past, my present, and eventual future; 

then there are the meteors, that i hope will stay lightyears away from my molten core. 

it's fragile, and spiteful, and ungraceful, and everything in between. 

let's leave behind the celestial talk and bring it down to Earth. maybe i'm a molehill, 

made of the ashes of fallen mountains. the bootsoles of a hiker don't acknowledge my 

existence. i'd turn to mud afterwards, maybe, after a few days of heavy rain. 

i'd trickle down to a tiny stream that runs through the forest, clear and bright, and 

undirtied. 

then i would become water, filtering through young mouths and fingers alike.

                                                             then i would finally be useful to someone until i turn up dry.