The first time I saw a shooting star, I was a child.
With bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks,
My still-blonde hair tangled and messy
around my ears.
I clapped and jumped up and down as I watched,
tracking every movement as it fell to earth
and wishing as hard as I could.
The last time I saw a shooting star
was tonight.
Over a decade away from that childhood self,
a far cry from the girl I used to be.
Gaunt and tired,
with wild blue hair,
pale, hollow cheeks, and weary eyes,
blowing lungfuls of smoke through cracked, bitten lips,
into the cold night air.
And after all these years,
the magic of childhood long gone,
I watched it fall,
and wished
and wished,
hoping
for a miracle.
I don't know if there's anything less
that could save me.
YOU ARE READING
still surviving
PoetryA collection of poems and diary entries from the diary of a girl with mental illness. These are the words unspoken, the raw reality of fighting against your own mind in the battle for recovery. Some content may be triggering for some readers, partic...
