The stars would have been interesting if you had told me about them. Their location and how they controlled your very being, and I would have mapped them out on your skin, showing how your words were biblical to me; now, they look like tiny embroidery on a black shirt. I stare at them, trying to make sense of it, and I realize I never knew you in person; I do not know the warmth of your skin, but you have grown to haunt me and sent your minions to judge me as you have given the stars' eyes. They make me know that I am not wanted. For a second, my twelve-year-old self rears her head, fighting to be heard, reminding me that I deserve attention despite your actions suggesting otherwise, and suddenly, there are tears in my eyes, my hands hurt a bit, and I notice I am tightening them to hide from hiccupping into tears.

I know expectations killed me with you; you were unpredictable. I would take whatever you offered me. The sun may stand at my front door and offer happiness and a bright day, and I will beckon for winter and the moon because you dictated what my day should be. If you let me, I would consume your essence and merge us into one, but I will settle for what-ifs, pack my feelings neatly, put them in a corner, and walk away.