If I am made of stardust, where is my grand, flaming existence, the bright aura that has made millions stare up and wonder? Where is my light, my beauty that has led humans to study me, to leave the only home they have ever known just to be a little closer to me? If I am a dead star, given new life, where is my gravitational pull? Why was it so easy for everyone to leave me behind? If I am made from the stars, why do I not burn?

If I am a flower, why do you not admire me? If I am a rose, why do you not prick yourself on my thorns? Where are my soft petals, my fragile leaves? If I am a dandelion, why do I not scatter on the wind? If I am a wildflower, why am I not growing free?

If I am a diamond, where is my shine? Why do I break so easily? If I am a diamond, why do I chip with each thing you throw at me? Am I uncut and imperfect, though still beautiful? Am I set in silver and gold so the world can see how dazzling I am? Or am I buried far beneath the surface, a gem in the making? If I am a diamond, why have I shattered?

If I am a masterpiece on a canvas, why have I only been painted with red? Is my blood all I am worth anymore? Why can I not have blue, green, purple? Why can I not have soft, safe colors? If I am a painting, why do you not gaze upon me with amazement? If I am a work of art, why am I worth nothing to you, to this world?

If I am a girl, why do I wish to be anything but? If I am alive, where are my bruises? (This body has been hurt too many times to still feel pain, but you seem to be trying your best.) If I am yours, why have you thrown me away?