I am one pursuit in hundreds of recruits.

I am in one family in a world of two billion families.

I am on one planet in one galaxy of limitless galaxies:

My significance is minute.

If I took a twenty-five thousand light-year commute,

I would land in the middle of one of the most popular galaxies.

There I would find, tasting of rum and smelling of raspberries,

a dust cloud called Sagittarius B2.

Consuming such a substance sounds intoxicating;

however, it would destroy me

because it's comprised of ethyl cyanide.

Like that poisonous dust cloud, my future seems to be so open and baiting.

I'm terrified that I might go on a sinning spree.

What if evil wins when my wants and desires collide?

On the inside, I’m like a black hole, a disruption in space.

By consuming everything in their way and spewing out heat they

send everything around them into disarray

and allow nothing—not even light—to escape.

Improbable is not a word that leaves an appealing taste.

When my doctor started talking unlikely things, I could only pray.

I feel as if I am constantly on my knees about to sway,

and my heart breaks every time I see a child's sweet face.

It isn't fair that I can't do what normal women may.

I'm envious of those whose wombs won't transform into a black hole

at the presence of a foreign starry-eyed baby.

To enjoy kids, I'll have to pray, pray, and pray.

God made my body it's own birth control:

maybe it's because I'd go crazy.

And though my importance may be all but gone,

soaring through these stars, I’ll carry on.