Fluorophore

I hold a wand
clear as a fresh puddle of water,
and when I crack the plastic casing
I make magic
real.

This is a vial
filled with all the hopes and wonders
of a childhood spent discovering
what every single word
cannot express:

A life lit with brokenness.

The wand glows green
but not with envy,
is bright
but not burning,
and the clear plastic
lets the shine
come out.

As I wave
a wake is trailing
tracing the life in constant abandon
that I command
as I hold my hand aloft.

But this wand
won’t glow forever
with life inside its body
so I ask myself if I’m willing
to break.

The magic can escape
if I’m brave enough
to pierce
the plastic lining
and let the light
touch my skin
as it’s shining.

My friend once said
that it will glow
and light your blood
if you rub the magic
hard enough
like a lamp.

He said,
Just hold it in your hand
and rub it on your skin
and your heart
will make your wish
come true.

So like a crushed firefly
I spread the life across my flesh
and let it soak into my blood
as it pulses

And as it fades into my pores
and the magic disappears
I look down
and wonder

what I’ve become.

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