“If only you had appreciated her love for astronomy. You would have been able to understand that she paints galaxies with her eyes. That the dots of freckles on her cheeks represent the millions of stars floating around outer space. Her veins are infused with stardust, and she has comets dancing on her arms.
When she would feel angry, it would have reminded you of meteors shooting through the sky. In her moments of happiness, it would have reminded you of shooting stars, a dream come true. When she was sad, it was like a broken universe. People tried to shrink her, take her words away, make her life smaller, but what they didn’t know was that she had an electrical current within her body that would not allow her to shrink. She is a collection of paradoxes, a gravitational pull; her mind was like a graveyard replete with thoughts that died.
Her voice commanded the night sky, and her mouth was capable of swallowing stars. That is why every time she spoke, everyone was hypnotized by the tenderness of her voice. She had a fire building up within her, but you extinguished her to the point of ashes. You simply couldn’t understand her. You didn’t understand that the stars and the moon and the galaxies all controlled her. You couldn’t grasp the fact that she was an anthology of poetry; she was unreadable.“
I posted this a while ago. But I can just never stop reading it. It blows my mind how literature can become more relatable than the actual human being. Even though literature spills from us. It’s funny how so many of us are afraid to spill out loud what we spill on paper.