They say people are mostly starstuff.
Ninety-three percent of our bodies made from
the creation / explosion of tiny distant specks.
There’s something holy about the heavens. It’s
why every step we take tries to bend itself skyward:
up there are unravelings a body can’t hold. I say
reaching is overrated. I shun the upside,
never met one that didn’t fall apart in my hands.
The things we touch weren’t meant to last long. Once
I beheaded an ant because it had
scrambled too close to me. I wanted to know
what it felt like to play executioner: not
bad. I do not play nice / sit pretty / apologize
for all that hurting. Some days I forget
to speak to my mother and only realize when
the stars remind me, sky dark and unbreathing,
full moon through bedroom window while we’re
all undercover pretending to sleep. Some nights
I dream in oversaturation. Once I stayed up
until the sun kissed the horizon. Rising is movement
not just empty words but I haven’t yet tried it.