Layout by: Misha Mikylla Sanchez
Published by: Marino Peralta
Date Published: August 5, 2024
Time Published: 7:30 AM
Category: Prose
Subject: Confusion between accepting death or fighting for life.
I've tipped toe to reach this, and with shattered glass scattered on my path, it is not impossible to fall down with these no railing stairs, for we are vases. There are some vases that fell and were broken into pieces. I've seen the soil and the rose inside, and I'm glad they're not rotten.
I never want to write this prose like how I started my life, and I never want to end this metaphor, but it must. I've seen death in my dreams, but (s)he never picked me. Am I the ugliest rose (s)he's ever seen? I worry not; somehow I will always find a way to reach her or his gates.
I've always murmured to myself that we are vases; the plant inside us is our beauty, but somehow we must break if we want the whole world to see. Are we really the vase, or is it our heart, and we are the plant? Because these past few days, all I wanted to do was break that vase and rise the way I wanted. Break my heart and live the way I love, or die if I can't.
“But there are still papers you can scratch your thorns with.”
Yeah, well, my uncle is a gavel who hasn't hit enough surface yet; he met Hades this Christmas eve. I never want to scratch those papers with my thorns; fire will touch them if I say so. I can't elucidate how much I tried climbing these stairs and kept falling and having a crack. I keep falling, but not too hard. I'm about to beg Icarus, por favour, tell me, how was the fall? How was flying into an early grave?
I'm torn between living and leaving this entity. I've promised to stay, yet here I am slowly fading away. Tell me how many mountains I need to climb to finally find the peace I'm trying to reach tonight. My pain was never beautiful; it was bloody, sharp, and rusty.
Aphrodite, I can never feel the warmth and light of beauty.
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