A burning ball of gas in space
makes me happy.
Or maybe it's all of the things that come with it,
Like good gold diggers everywhere
I only want it for the treasures, and the spotlight it gives me.
Things seem simpler in the sun.
I'm night owl with a big imagination
Which, for the record, is a terrible combination.
I seem to be a collage of all the wrong things...
Sharp, angry edges that attempt to blend with the seamless curves of my good intentions.
I can stay up all night long with
the lights off,
the fan whirring,
the streetlight flickering in my half-moon window,
and think.
Think of things I don't ever want to think about...
squeeze my eyes shut real tight and push them out of my head.
Think of things that are so impossible
like loving the burning ball of a sun for its practical, scientifically proven reasons
Like it's vitamin D, and UV rays,
and not like it's ability to twist a tragedy into a pretty little lie that I love with all of my pretty little cartoon heart,
the kind that has no valves or vomit inducing blood.
But a heart that you doodle on paper that never gets tired or gives out on you.