The Night Always Ends

Sometimes I wish I could be a sentence

so easily erased and rewritten.

They say that the glass is half full

and I say half empty because I know what it's like

to feel that something is missing.

These idle hands have always been

more masterful with blades than brushes,

prefer to paint in crimson

than any other colour and I wonder,

if the wounds you tend to are self-inflicted,

does that still count as taking care of yourself?

I have spent a lifetime discovering my voice

amidst the ones that have plagued me,

have learned to leave the light on

instead of fighting with my darkness.

A sheltered town is all I've ever known how to be,

but this roof and these walls, are growing suffocating.

I keep breathing despite the breaking,

hoping one day I'll believe that I am worth saving.

I'm lost in the scratch and scrape

of rust coloured leaves

racing over sidewalks and in between trees,

kicked up by the breeze and tumbling,

never running away,

but always racing towards something more.

If brushes were as tempting

as polished silver blades,

I'd paint myself a raven,

that was bold and unafraid,

as dark as night in mourning,

until the morning came

to take the grief away.

I'd keep telling myself

the night always ends,

that sadness is temporary.

And I am temporary, too.

I refuse to waste this too short lifetime

striking my lonely moonlight skin,

letting the storm rage on within,

believing that I deserve it.

I will not bow down before brilliant bolts

of violent amethyst lightning,

no matter how loud the thunder might be.

I think, perhaps, the night was made for me.

I am made up of magic and mystery.

I pluck the stars from the sky

and wear them like glittering jewels,

weave a crown of moonflowers

and place it atop the midnight black

strands of my hair.

I bloom after dusk,

no longer afraid of the absence of light.

I am brave and untamed,

beautiful like those ravens

with their grand iridescent wings.

The moon is but a sliver in the sky

and the evening air against my skin awakens.

The horizon quietly changes from obsidian,

bleeds red and I lose myself as I witness

it becoming rosy and gloriously golden.

Maybe there is an exhale that follows forgiveness.

If the sun has decided

it has the courage to rise,

then I wonder if

I could follow its wildfire flames

as they ignite the sky.

Wishes are simply dreams

we weren't brave enough to chase after.

So I will not let fear cast me aside.

I will learn to let go like the last

of autumn's dying leaves,

curling into themselves and flying free.

I will make enough room to let the light back in.

If I do not choose to stay,

then who will keep

the barren, cold, leafless trees

in the winter company?

I know that tomorrow might not be easy,

but there are still more days to come.

I think that the dark

is what makes the dawn breathtaking.

And I now know,

that if I said goodbye

to the night forever,

I'd always miss the stars.

ZOMBEAR