i wish i could be loved the way the stars are loved—
without expectation, without effort,
just for the simple fact of existing,
just for the quiet burn of my light.

but i am not the stars.
i am flawed and fleeting,
my edges rough, my brightness dim.
i bend myself into shapes that ache,
trying to fit the mold of "worthy,"
but it’s never enough.
it’s never enough.

the stars, untouched, eternal,
are held in reverence, in awe.
people look to them for guidance,
make wishes on their unbroken glow.
no one demands they shine brighter,
no one tells them they are too much or too little.
they are loved for just being there.

how can i not envy that?
how can i not ache for a love
that doesn’t feel like a test
i am always failing?

some days i think i might collapse
under the weight of trying—
trying to earn what should be given freely.
some days, i wonder if the stars
ever pity us, down here clawing
for scraps of affection,
while they are worshipped from afar.

but even the stars will die,
even their brilliance will fade,
and maybe then they will know
what it feels like to be me—
to burn and burn and burn,
and still feel invisible.

is it so much to ask
to be loved without reason,
without conditions,
without the fear that one wrong move
will make it all disappear?

i am tired of trying to shine.
i want to be held in my darkness,
to be seen in my shadow,
to be told i am enough
even when i am not glowing.

but maybe love like that is a fantasy,
something that only exists
for stars and gods and stories.
and so i will keep burning,
quietly, hopelessly,
until there is nothing left of me
but the faintest trace of light
in an indifferent sky.