I stand on cracks in broken concrete,
The colors of eggshell and cracked pepper,
Swollen hands, rounded and clay red at knuckles,
balled into fists of
fire in my pockets
Dusted by burning red and browning, contorted leaves
caught in the
shushing of the careless wind,
Gusts of cold and thoughtless breath dry the oceans
Forming at the bottoms of my swimming eyes,
Crying at the blue blackened sky reflecting my heart;
Beaten and ashamed
And I want nothing more
Than to be a constellation
Pieces of me scattered, on display
On purpose.
Forming something as brilliant as Ursa Major or
As faithful as Sirius.
I wonder how many tears Orion’s belt has seen,
How many times Andromeda touched down to kiss the swollen tear
ducts of the hopeless
I wonder who else is staring up at the winking sky, feeling
So hopeless, so small, so envious,
Thinking of me, as I am crying for them.
I stand atop these cracks, wishing for nothing
More than to break through the sky and be your constellation
Too gassy and hot and unstable to be admired from more than
a twinkling distance,
Never fulfilled or conquered,
Pieces of me scattered across the home of the moon held so
dear,
Moonlit, seemingly lovely, white, bright, full and half,
Realizing that I do not merely reflect the light,
I am no mirrored swollen image,
But I, my light,
Emit
Atop these cracks.
