At night, I’m terrified of falling asleep
because I don’t know what horrors are inside.
I may be young, but I can understand them.
I dress in dark colors and wear chains and chokers.
I feel so small in such an enormous universe.
I want to play the part of a human being,
but I also want to become the goddess of the stars.
I’m in love with the rain as it cools on my skin,
the petrichor that follows, and the returning sun,
but my heart spins like a weathervane in a storm.
My mind is a chaotic clatter of voices and sounds.
I am the commander of a thousand soldiers.
I am the brittle stem that carries the dead leaf.
My elegant and long fingers were created to create.
My tongue was pierced and your heart, it will pierce.
I pinch my cheeks so that they may smile wider,
but I am not always happy. I cry so I may cry again.
I am the drawings and writing on painted walls.
I am the thing that’s keeping myself grounded.
I'm a crow waiting for the autumn wind to pass me by.
I'm patient, silent, and still. My feathers ruffle.
I am a feather drifting into a smoldering cauldron.
I know I will die, but I have chosen to enjoy drifting.
At night, I am young and dark and small
and I want to play the part of a human being,
but I have instead become the goddess of the stars.
The rain, petrichor, and sun storm above me.
My army of soldiers is brittle, but elegant and piercing.
I will smile again so that I may cry. I will write.
I will be grounded and the wind will pass me by.
I will be patient, silent, and still above the cauldron.
I know I will die, but I have chosen to enjoy living.
Playing the part
More by Rovva
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Eleven Years
For eleven years, I've been a part of the YWP community. I started when I was 11 years old and I went by my old name back then. I used to publish my work here all the time, but much of my publishing has now moved to my university.
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A Nine-Year Journey
For nine years, I've been a part of YWP and for nine years, I've felt seen by this community. Even as I've grown up, I've watched new young writers come and share their thoughts, emotions, and stories. -
Beaming writer
In sixth grade, our class had a show-and-tell every week,
and every week, a small handful of students were selected to participate in the next one.
As I was selected, anxiety kicked in.
I wasn't really proud of anything.
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