You have galaxies in an iris and
Constellations lining the
Curvatures of your palms but
You count the steady stream of
Craters left on the hardened shelter
Of volcanic rock holding
Your bleeding heart together –
And you call yourself defective.
You forget the courage of the
Soft tissue that dares to beat and
Bleed molten hot passion
And love from a core
That dares to keep churning
While the fists keep flying
And scarring.
You abhor the marks
And the memory of
Wasted muscle on a skeletal frame
And you call yourself broken.
But I marvel at the broken pieces
How they shine with the light of a
Dying star, and your eyes
That glow, not with the white-hot hatred
Of a nuclear blast
But with the electric florescence of
An expanding sun.
You are
Light, and you are
Power, and you are
Fragments
Of the skeleton you were
With a million universes on your fingertips
And a billion lives on your tongue.
*(Be big.
Expand.
Take up space in
His arms and
Your head, and I promise:
One day the world will
Stop filling your core with
Negativity, and you’ll
Supernovae.
And you’ll be beautiful.)*