You like stars?
Fool.
Those are the little holes poked in the container so we can breathe.

she has scars
like stars

too many to count
but enough to tell stories of the past

I'll turn my eyes
into the stars
and put them in the sky.

they'll show you
the way to go home,
even if the day is dark.

we burn the skeletons
of creatures buried deeper than
the fallen stars that took them
pouring them into our automobiles
so they can take us to the places they roamed

skeletons can't talk
but we tell their stories amidst the quiet
they left us

i wonder if we got them right

That unforgiving metal.
Within that unforgiving metal lies all the things you cannot forgive about yourself.
Those freckles on your chin that you wish would expand into a constellation so that you may give them names and so that you may give them meaning,
within that unforgiving metal.

The Greeks threw their hands towards the heavens
and deemed cosmic accidents worthy of the names of gods,
although within them lie no gifts.
Like a bedazzled and jaded Tiresias impostor one stumbles upon
on their way home,
who sees nothing but the tangible
and tells all but the truth.
Still, he is clad in diamonds and gold
and thus has value in trade.
Beauty triumphs over mendacity
and mendacity over reality.

But the freckles that mar your skin,
that you cannot transfigure into the most meaningless of stars or the crudest of answers,
sit there defiantly,
waiting to be acknowledged and waiting to be named.

You lean your forehead forward to rest against the cool smoothness of its idle twin.
You could swear you saw her sneer at you.
The freckles do not budge—they will consume you whole.