two years ago you stumbled upon me, a jar of glistening stars, tucked snug under your pillow.
i was mesmerising, radiant; you held an impenetrable repugnance towards me. you discarded me, threw me across the room. my glass shattered. stars sprinkled on your carpet.
you didn't quarrel over the mess as your parents would. instead, you relentlessly trampled me each time your feet squelched on the floor of your filthy abode.
and each time your bedraggled feet smothered my stars, their empowering glow suppurated and decayed.
when you disappeared - although only for mere weeks - i rehabilitated myself. i gathered the fragments of glass and glued them around me, a tentative wall to muffle the affliction i faced each time you held a black hole above me.
you came back- only in momentous successions of gentle tiptoeing; i felt only the shadow of your foot as you stepped over me.
my vessel grew more robust. the glue set and i was a jar of stars once more. the dying balls of light eventually flickered into sentience again.
over the course of two years, i slowly but steadily recovered. i twinkled with the magnificence 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 snug under your pillow. the silk fabric of your pillow case was slowly lifted from me and i knew.
i had been discovered. you discarded me again, violently threw me again, and i'm a jar of stars sprinkled all over your carpet again.
and this time, my glass has shattered into pieces so microscopic i'm not certain i'll put them back together again.
