Fighting the Cycle

I find myself often, staring into the abyss above
Wondering whether or not the twinkling stars think as I do
I question if they are all manifestations of my own mind
Searching desperately for a semblance of peace and beauty in an otherwise endless void
“I can compare myself to nature,” I exclaim
If I can find beauty in everything then surely I can find beauty in myself
If I can rationalize my hardship as a seed forcing its way through clay
Then maybe I can believe I, too, will bloom

I catch myself often, thinking aloud all the horrors that once were held under lock and key
I relish thoughts that would have a softer me second guessing whether or not age is a good thing
“Maybe I should stay young forever,” that gentle me would say
Maybe he would have found the fountain of youth our stories told us about
I think he would be correct in feeling that way
I find that as a cold world hardens the shell around my heart I become reclusive, fearful, and angry all over again
The gentle me that faded into obscurity at the small age of 13 claws at me
He wants to see the future we made it to as well, he wants to know if it was all worth it

I force myself often, to stare longingly into the eyes of the soul beside me
I give way to the child within, and let him experience the kindness and gentle love he never knew
He then scolds me, reminding me that the hell we escaped is no longer meant for us

“This is our home now,” we tell ourself
This is what we worked so hard for