I am a constellation
A baffling creation of unintentional art
A random selection of cells
That form no shape, no being

I am the outline in a child's activity book
Connect the dots
An undrawn picture
Of a previously imagined individual

We humans make pictures with the stars
We draw lines between the dots
We create pictures of the things we are familiar  with
Assuming one leads to two
Defining vast and undesigned constellations into images material possessions
Based only on their locations

I have been tracing the lines between the numbers
Drawing pictures of myself in the sky
Trying to define myself in a human way
Trying to find enough of myself to fill the outlines laid down for me

I cannot find the pieces
I cannot fit the shapes
The rigid lines between the stars
Drawn on your human map
Do not fit my soul
And cannot be filled with my mind
Too much and not enough simultaneously

I cannot be your connect the dot
I cannot find the proper path to the image you created of me
Cannot draw or walk or be the lines
You painstakingly wrote out for me to trace

For the lines you drew do not truly exist
You drew them there to make the inexplicable scattering of dots and stars more comprehensible
You wanted the Galaxy to be graced with familiarity

I am not familiar
I am simply a random selection of cells
Simply the dots
Simply the stars
With no images or meanings