Crimson

By
Does it seem like the fire is burning too brightly?
Like the moonlight changes nightly?
It is, and it does.
The light that falls among my skin bares these flaws to the world,
to my world,
to you.
It never seems dark enough,
never light enough.
Content?
Not ever, no, not me.
I find myself with too little
or too much,
pushing away and pulling in with cold hands.
I wish among stars with the knowledge
that they may already be burnt out,
leaving me wishing on empty spaces and black holes
and therefore, receiving nothing.
But the hope that the balls of fire are, in fact, real, lingers on
and I wait, as a hopeful speck, never knowing if what I wished upon was an illusion.
Why do I wish, anyhow?
I realize that these stars can not grant me such wishes,
can not give me what I need,
they can not even give off the right amount of light.
Dim down the stars, please.
I'm not comfortable showing myself to the world
Crimson does not shine brightly,
and so neither can I.





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