My Name Is Shooting Star

Show, don’t tell. Show, don’t tell. Show, … Don’t tell… I can’t tell you what I look like. I can show you what it’s like to embody me. The me that you see. A constant becoming.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I don’t know anymore. Am I disappearing? Everything I’ve worked for. Is that also disappearing? I feel like I’m disappearing. How does it feel to disappear into yourself? I’ll know soon for sure. Anxious and desperate for answers, but no longer willing to look to the future or the past, or other people and the blame that I could place on them. There is so much that I could place if I wanted to. But what’s the point? Who does it help? That’s just holding on to old wounds, old toxic connections. And I can move forward instead. So why not do that? Why not give myself the gift of moving on?

I deserve it, just like I deserve so much more, and so much of that will only come to me when I’ve made space for it in my life, and how can I make space with all the clutter that I keep carrying. Old ways I’ve outgrown and outlived, that I’ve died in before being reborn into who I am now. And it feels scary and futile, like running into the bars to see what parts of me can escape the jail that I’ve grown into. What parts of me can survive and get to the other side, see freedom through, and feel the breeze on my cheeks.