White.

Bleak. Red.

It burns.

Blue.

It’s thriving.

…

__ I want to be a blue star. I want to thrive like them, and shine brighter. Blue seems sad and meek at first, but I’ve always thought underlying meanings are everything. Sometimes I have so many thoughts I want to burst. Sometimes I burn cuts into my skin, one for each thought to remind me of how bright I am, like a star. Others tell me I’m brilliant, I’m as bright as my smile. I like to believe them, and this helps me. Drifting between one and another of my kind keeps my head quite. My fingers itch to try it. To burst a new nebula, die a new star, cluster new beginnings and feel as you are. I scraped circles into the moon, carving out a face to resemble you. Many people deny me of my feat. They say it’s just nothing talk. But I made it just for you, my dear. Why don’t you appreciate my light I’ve gifted you, as it appears in its fullest once a month? Nevertheless I don’t mind if you refuse, I’ll continue to flit and float amongst the empty space. The nothingness is starting to fail me as my thoughts travel back.

I want to burn like a star again.