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.