In some universe
-probably one with living organisms and planets inside a creative mind-
I am an attractive tragedy.
I'll show them.

The planets in my head may be full of deserts,
and maybe no living being's skin knows eternal life,
and that may be beautiful to you.

My galaxies might be scarred and my stars cracked.
The gravitational pull of every existing mass weak,
and that may be beautiful to you.

I'm thankful my turmoil is beauty,
but I am not a tragedy.
I was created in the image of angels,
my skin built of stardust.
I am powerful.

I am not a tragedy.