Stars are all dead
so a million years ago
one must have predicted
I was going to be sad this day.
Last night the sky was cloudy enough
for me to hide under the clouds
and yell to the moon,
complaining about my mood;
I have a lot of things I need to tell her
but I don’t want her to know it’s me
so she won't take some kind of revenge.
I was told I need to fake it until I make it
but my friends are getting tired
of me asking them
how to pretend to be happy.
I see that normal people smile at everyone
and I want to do so, too,
but I don’t understand
why people say I’m creepy
when I smile at them.
I wasn’t aware of how much
I hate certain people
until I started dreaming of my stepmother
and how she killed my innocence
the day she said she loved me no more.
My psychologist asked me
to draw what I wanted to be as an adult
and I texted him a picture of a writer
because I can’t draw.
My face is clean
and free of impurities
because I wash it with my tears all the time;
I never thought crying
could be this effective.
Tonight the sky is clear,
and the moon
and some stars are visible,
so I keep quiet
and look for the ashes
of the star that predicted my faith.
What she couldn’t guess
was that I wasn’t going to accept depression
as a way of life,
and that’s the reason
I don’t believe in astrology.
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