two years ago you found me, a jar of glistening stars, tucked safely under your pillow.
i was beautiful and you hated me. you discarded me, threw me across the room. my glass shattered. stars spilled on your carpet.
you didn't fuss or clean me up like your parents would. you continued to step on me every time your feet touched the floor of your room.
and each time your dirty feet smothered my stars, their bright glow faded.
you went on vacation for a few weeks and i fixed myself. i picked up the pieces of broken glass and glued them around me, a temporary wall to muffle the pain i felt each time your mcdonald's toy wrappers floated to the floor.
you came back- only in momentous successions of gentle tiptoeing; i felt only the shadow of your foot as you stepped over me.
my glass became stronger. the glue set and i was a jar of stars once more. the dying balls of light slowly flickered back to life.
over the course of two years, i slowly but steadily recovered. i glowed with the beauty of a van gogh painting; i was a flourish of closing wounds and healthy minds.
i was happy.
and then, just a week ago, i, a jar of stars, woke up- tucked safely under your pillow. the silk fabric of your pillow case was slowly lifted away from me and i knew.
i had been found. you discarded me again, violently threw me again, and i'm a jar of stars spilled all over your carpet again.
and this time, my glass has shattered into pieces so small i'm not sure i can put them back together again.
