at the sunrise of my existence, it was decided that i would carry with me a special kind of burden. perhaps i did something to deserve it in a past life where i was ungrateful and wretched; a godless, wicked little thing of which he decided would suffer in every incarnation to follow.

every cog and special piece i was built from, even when pulled apart and rearranged, will continue to churn out this relentless, intemperate, and tumultuous yearning. an arduous ardor which can only be satisfied by the embrace i’ve yet to receive—warm arms wrapped around my shoulders, palms grasping at the cold wrists bound by an oversized sweater, and the soft, affectionate tug on each one of my lonely fingers.

i have beauty marks on the back of my hands. two on the right, and one on the left. when i was young, i discovered that if i position them just right—one atop the other, and the thumbs properly entwined—a triangle forms. it’s a peculiarity i keep in my bag of tricks, cheerfully performing for anyone who will spare a moment to look in my direction, and their response is always the same.

they never noticed.

it’s always been too much to ask for someone to seek out constellations in my freckles, and a horizon formed by the crooked bend of my ring finger, or the moon-shaped scar on my temple. my mind so nebulous, and packed with a million different universes with stories i’m compelled to tell, but no one bothers to listen.

within this heart that works too hard even at rest is a cavernous, cacophonous love that is as unfathomable as the galaxy beyond our reach. so sonorous and arcane, it pounds in people’s ears, and mystifies them; bewilders them.

burdens them.

what a cruel fate to bestow upon me—a sick, twisted joke enforced by some malevolent trickster at my dawning. to be born with a love so profound, and a fervent longing to share it with others, but to find that i only seem to scare my suitors away.

i offer my affection only to have it shoved back into my hands like a dirty rag.

all my beauty, and all my charm, and all the adoration i have to offer is not enough to disguise the blight god brought upon the world when he created me.

so when they say god makes no mistakes, i’m inclined to disagree, because if i wasn’t made in error, then that would mean god doomed me to harbor this burdensome love of which will die with me alone.