there is no earth on your shoulders, atlas,
there is only the rubble of stars in your veins
and the wreckage of your heart
and the oceans in your lungs
and the red on your hands
these sins are all you can bleed now, aren't they,
and they're not even yours, are they?
they are the ones that have fallen across the earth and to its ends
until they found their way to you
and scarred your once starry skin
so that you may bear and bleed these sins of theirs,
until you shatter underneath the weight of the world