If I were a solivagant star in space,
I'd link arms with the universe
and have her tell me that
all this pain was worth it,
that something golden would
blossom from it,
maybe then I'd be more focused
on planting seeds instead of
always drowning in the weeds
of my blackened psyche.

I'd burn, explode,
spontaneously combust,
and no one would tell me
that to confirm was all I
had to aspire to,
no one would be around
to make me feel like
too much of a burden,
as if I feel too much too quickly,
too warm, too much, too fiercely.

If I were truly solivagant,
I'd have no reason to cry
when asked "How are you?"
I would not avoid the
ever familiar question
"How was your day?"

Wanderlust would consume me
and I'd search for hidden gold,
space would not cheat me,
would not let me crumble and fold.

My tears would be of use,
they'd fall on clouds as messengers
to rain upon the seeds on earth,
to give life to the breathing dead.

I think I'd love to be
a solivagant star in space,
no magic tricks would be needed,
no quizzes to tell me
that I belong in this place.