Once, a prince of his own right with soft white locks that interchanged like a million hands grappling for one another

Into his eyes, an untold song like the device his mothers fingers never stopped tapping, impatient on

You could know that he would always be dangerous, but not only to the sky, 

To his own home, one he could never bear to accept, a love that was not his own 

A heart he could not command to pause in its eternal bleed

every good story has has a want- 

oh, dearest, did I forget to mention what was his own? 

he only wanted to feel nice, a sweater in the summer that

didn't feel like a hundred little hands and coarse sand all over his bump ridden arms

begging and pleading with him to lay down his pen and shrivel

and so he made things, drew maps to forgotten lands

sculpted wild mens heads 

cooked in the ides of marches storms

tended to the stock, tender to the cactus on his windowsill

the prince made and made, until he went mad from it

until my hands were cut

black ink turned red and then brown, as

I discovered that a star who burns so bright is one about to die

you? were you the prince, my dear star?

This world expected me to sculpt a carridge of gold and ride faster than anyone had ever done

I don't blame it, to see a child with potential is to shape a future- to play god

For me being a gifted child was to hunt endlessly for the fountain of praise and for it trade my youth, friendship for a scholars certificates

The thing about being "gifted" as a little kid, is that suddenly you're 13 and wondering how they ever thought you were anything special, and you turn to a starless desolate sky and beg to be given a spark. 

I was a gifted child once, 

I was the golden child

And one day, I burned too hard.