The Wolf Cries for Heaven
Somebody called you pretentious today.
It was not that which bugged you, because you have been called that many times before. It was the way it was said, the classic sneer widening as it saw you finger the bandages on your wrists. You were nervous, you were anxious, and yet you can't help but stare as the lips formed themselves, pronouncing you a fraud.
But you cannot move. You cannot give the grin the satisfaction of seeing you sway, tears brimming in your eyes, so choked up that every word makes your throat ache. So you just stand there, your face hardening in its plaster mold until you become a statue. You have died, a monument that no one cares for because of your sagging lips and bitten-down fingernails.
You are a failure.
And yet it wasn't always this way. Once, you played in the garden, reaching for the sticky figs that were always a couple of inches too high. And then, exhausted from climbing and running, you finally buried yourself in the grass, watching the butterflies dance overhead...
It was nighttime when you caught your first firefly. When you saw it first, you thought it was a star. But when you reached for the light, your fingers were too clumsy and they crushed him. In the dim light, you searched vainly for the star, but it was gone and all that was left was the purple blood, splattered on your thumb.
It was an accident, it was an accident.
But even as you think these words, you stop and turn to the moon. And you cry, your sobs drifting off in the open night air. The stars cry with you, their lights flickering distantly as tears twinkle off like falling diamonds. But the silver moon never speaks.