Supernovas in your eyes

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It starts as a lie, but it doesn’t really feel like one because you’re lying to yourself more than you are to others, and somehow that makes it okay. 

 

It goes like this, you’re walking alone and looking for a sign.

 

You’re paralyzed with fear and shaking in anger, because everything is difficult and nothing’s the way you imagined it. You can see how it ends and it’s not the way you dreamt at seventeen. But it’s real and it’s messy and it’s alway been all or nothing with you but if there ever was a time to be brave, this would be it. 

 

There’s a song in your heart and it’s one you haven’t heard in a long time. 

 

Maybe this time, it sings, maybe now. 

 

It goes like this, you walk ’til you reach the top and take comfort in the silence of the night whispering sweet nothings in your ear. The moment is fragile, almost breakable. But you walk that line, and it’s yours, and it’s glorious. 

 

It takes a song, and a hill, and a blanket of stars. Or maybe they’re city lights, asking to be seen. Begging you to remember. Shining brighter than they have in months, in years, since you last let your eyes wander and your knees buckle on this same muddy ground, because you’ve always been a sucker for tradition. 

 

All the places you’ve seen and the lives you’ve lived merge into one with every new intake of breath, and you can almost see it. How it goes. 

 

How maybe, it doesn’t have to end.

 

It goes like this, home is a foreign word on the tip of your tongue but it feels sweeter than it ever did, and that in itself is a victory. 

 

It goes like this, the life you dreamed up at seventeen is nothing but a reminder  of all the ways you’ve changed, and you’re starting to like how that feels. 

 

It goes like this, there’s greatness in small moments and big moments and in yourself. There’s supernovas in your eyes and the echo of a song worth singing, worth coming back to. 

 

It goes like this, there’s a hand helping you up and a sprint to your step; there’s four empty boxes of brownies in your bag and a black notebook with the words ‘we don’t know where we’re going but we know where we belong’ written on it; there’s candles on your nightstand, art on your walls, and the neighbor’s lilac tree is starting to blossom again; there’s an open tab on your laptop, a plane ticket you almost bought. Almost.

 

There’s the promise of it, shining brighter than anything you’ve ever known, telling stories you’ve already told but you’re only now starting to believe.

 

Maybe it’s time, it sings, maybe now. 

 

It goes like this, you stumble on the same notes you did four years ago on a sunny afternoon, and you remember to say thank you this time. You remember what they’ve done, and you look down at your feet but you’ve stopped looking for signs.

 

Green like the grass, the eyes and the light. 

 

Like that (and this) glorious, glorious start. 

 

Anna Myers