Prose: "stargazer"

I can't get over what you did, because when I undress my soul and run my fingers over my naked spirit, searching for truth and punishing any vanity, I touch the wound you left there.

It hasn't scarred. Because hasn't even healed completely, yet. Touch it gently, or sometimes it begins to weep and seethe again. I loved, perhaps still love, the ghost of who you were -- and that's the only thing that keeps me from plunging my fingertips, dirty and seeking, into the depth of the wound, tearing hurting infecting.

You said you loved me, but you swallowed it all back and told me that I wasn't good enough. I wasn't a star in your skies anymore; you'd given your stargazing up for basking in the blue sky's sun. You can't even see me, any more.

My poor deluded baby, the sun is overrated.