she owns stars  
they are hung in place of humming butterflies in her stomach
she does not get nervous, she gets enkindled;
set aflame within seconds
she is ultraviolet fearless,
feeling her penitence only where it is absolutely due
her name is attributed to shameless like a title
she does not make herself small
or fold neatly into borders and build refuge in corners
not smooth like a statue
she is rough around the fringe;
you can tell by looking at her
she is the definition of wear-and-tear, she is whirlwind
kicked around,
hung-out-to-dry,
her mouth has messy margins;
she possesses no absolutes
she is extraordinary,
boundless,
she embodies intensity and fills every word she speaks with volume
she cannot just touch the ones she loves,
she must wreak havoc in their lives.
the stars beg for forgiveness as
she ignites fury and forces conformity to her accompanying chaos.
the slightest hitch of breathing is suffocating
comfort is mistaken for smothering, extinguished vitality drives
an exit in ballerina form tornado
it is so carefully constructed,
a technique so practiced
it confounds the lines between art and destruction,
bitterness seeps from her tear ducts
acidic, every dance looks like an escape method around her wrists
she whispers;
"you cannot love
the constellations.
i contain multitudes,
i exist past your competence and occupy negative space;
i am made of what people wish they were bold enough to apperceive ."
and the stars translate in echo,
"you cannot love
what is scared to be touched.
oh,
what a lonely, impermanent space
frightened arrogance must occupy."