I’m the star child, isn’t that wild? The one who got good grades and was always praised. “It must feel so nice always feeling suffice”, people always say, but they never see my dismay. My brother and sister messed up, but not me, I’m the star child. The child who never messes up and keeps her chin tucked , the child that they tell their friends about whenever they need an ego boost or just another illusion to be produced. Because they made me this way, right? They made me the star child I didn’t ask to be and now it grabs a hold of me. Every step I take is calculated and planned I can’t even pee without raising my hand. Stuck In the shackles of their depiction of me while I scream and shout to be let out. But what if I told them I wasn’t a star, that I sit alone at bars wondering if I’ll ever actually be seen outside of the reality they painted me. The dead reality of who I am can’t seem to be let out, because of the fear I’ll shatter their dreams of who they thought I’d be, but how is that fair to me? Maybe I am a star. Stars are just dead, bright lights we see at a distance, anyway. To them, that light shines so bright, even in the darkest of nights.

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