Sick and Beautiful
The sun sits cradled in my skull, sparkling between two crisp clean light filled eyes. It warms the bridge of my nose and pushes white light through my nostrils. I can breathe in the shimmering scent of space.
My face is soft and open, fleshy mesh that allows the light to pass in and out through my pale pink skin. My freckles transform into pockets of glowing starlight. My radiant eyes are blossoming portals, kindled from my own lavish sun, bridging my being to wherever the light still reaches.
My sun settles warmly, toasting the corners of my mind. My ideas bask in this celestial glow. They ripen as my sun continues to twinkle. These cognitions come out clear and golden and a bit too hot to touch for anyone except me. I can grab each sinewy idea, each delicate strand of genius, and even though it melts away my fingerprints I don’t mind.
Surrounded by a wispy galaxy crafted from my own consciousness, with stars and planets I’ve brought to life, with orbits I keep edging into cosmic motion, I twirl my light into the blackness of nothing that weighs heavy on the edges of time, waiting to over power the brightness.
I tirelessly stir the sky.
I weave my own stars and my own thoughts tightly into the fabric of blackness that haunts the end of the universe and even though it dulls my own brilliance, the dispersal of my light into the void makes it smolder with the promising light of stubborn embers. The fire of hope sparks softly.
And while I no longer shine as brightly, at least we can see farther into the night.
