A Constellation of Thoughts

my galaxies are burnt out

When I was about six is when I looked up to you, and thought you were so tall you could touch space. I thought you could put the planets in a pecking order, and I was at the top of the hierarchy. I thought you could touch the stars upon many, like you could pick one specifically for me and say "this one's for you."  

As if galaxies were flowers, they were made to feel beautiful. You could put galaxies in my hair, it looked as if your smile glistened. Yet you never failed to make me feel small and insignificant. I soon grew frantic at the thought of myself being smaller than you. I wanted to be a galaxy bigger than you. With spiraling colors and have innocent things with good intentions living inside of me. 

I then created a wall to make myself less clear, to minimize myself and you drew over me like a foggy mirror. 

You don't make me feel like the Jovian-Plutonian Gravitational effect, you ruined my thought process. You broke down my walls, and never heard me calling you to tell you that you broke my heart before any boy ever could and in worse ways. 

you built me up and broke me down, but nobody chose to hear a sound. 

you threw me in a bottle and handed me to someone else, so they could rip the galaxies out of my hair, and let them stop- so the only thing you could hear was my sobs and tears hitting the glass. 

It sounded like drums in music class, and then, silence. 

The drummer boy stopped playing, there was no music to be played unless you heard the slightest sound of my stars burning out. Unless you heard land shiver, and water trickling down the brook. 

There were no crescendos, there were no beautiful galaxies, just burnt out stars, a girl and her dad. 

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I didn't write this about my biological father, this is about my step dad.