in my childhood, i wanted to swallow the sun

so i could be a star too

too timid, i crept from a dream

once lustrous and promising

dead dream, bad dream

but i kept my mouth open wide

gentle yawning maw

 

in my preteen years, i wanted to pluck

all of the night stars out of the sky

and nurse them back to health

because i couldn’t stand the thought

of dust from dead stars

floating beyond reach and human understanding

outer space orbit, hand in hand with pieces of

broken satellite and wishes made at 11:11.

too weak, i made a paper crane with that dream

and pretended it was a rocket ship.

dead dream, bad dream

i let it die with the stars

at the midnight masquerade.

when the sky cries,

i think of the blood on my hands.

 

Now, I am taking up space. I am a solar system.

I am a shooting star. I am vast midnight

rays of moonlight. I am a galaxy.

I am washing the blood off my hands

and scraping star dust from beneath my fingernails.

When you look out your window at twilight,

you will see me in gold streaks and silver twinkles.

The stars in your eyes will collide with mine,

and you will understand that in my childhood,

I wanted to own the universe,

and now,

I want to be,

Andromeda!