the evening star is not a star

The stars charmed your heart like a child
but it is like a child with ears shut
from the truth that not all of them are.
For you they are only flowers burning in the sky,
the names that burn with them
irrelevant to the way they lit softly
the emptiness you shelter away from
in the comfort of your laptop
under the flourescent-lit ceiling.
And you chose to ignore the relentless gaze
of Venus with its rain like acid
to the young, untested heart
crippling its unhardened muscles
and tugging it towards
your youthful ignorance
of what is love
and what is proper for love.

Your heart remains to be tested today

as the scolding hammers the

muscles and molds it

against the heat

against the damage of the acid

that seared the eyes of your heart

away from backward whispers

and into the intoxicating laughter

and kisses that sheltered it

against the burning dreams

of your imaginary (yet unmapped) constellations.

You are still but a child

and your heart still has to open

to the truth that the skies and the stars

can’t be molded to the whims of your youth.

They have to be learned and faced as they are

like the world, like life.

Then love.

By the time I wrote this, my sister was scolded because of reckless teenage love. I don’t want to think about the details (don’t worry, it’s not pregnancy).

Poem No. 4 for this week’s theme, “writing summer”.


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