There is a jigsaw piece in me that can never be filled.

I feel, and I feel, and there is nothing but emptiness in the absence of somethingness.

Everyone else has had their opportunities to shine. To have been in the right place at the right time. Some are heroines, some are miracle saviours, some are prodigies discovering aliens or new asteroids in outerspace.

And I really do try to be okay, but I think I'm falling behind. And it isn't right, it isn't right that I can still lay flat on my back when I sleep at night, it isn't right that when I strain my neck and reach for my back, there is nothing but flesh. Bones and flesh. Bones, skin, and flesh. Nothing that feels like silk. Nothing that trembles and tangles like its ethereal.

It's alright, I haven't done anything to deserve a pair of wings anyways.

My most notable achievement was probably when I won a dress-up competition in fourth grade, and no heavenly entity is going to bestow anything upon me for something so insignificant. Unless they pity me, which I'd rather they not.

Pity from a benevolent god would be emasculating of sorts. Shame I'm no male.

But there's still this sickly anguish in me, like the pain of homesickness, the sinking feeling of fear, the crushing weight of heartbreak. And it yearns. It yearns and it yearns and nothing can satiate it. It's like feeding a child that's been hungry for an entire lifetime, and it won't shut up and I'm beginning to fear that it never will.

They tell me I'm still young, that things will get easier, and one day, I might amount to something. But what if this world is just flipped upside down, and instead of one gemstone in a crater of dull rocks, I'm the dull rock in a landfill of gemstones?

Everywhere around me, the stars are burning, and I'm starting to feel like they've set me ablaze.