My self-image

is like looking

in a scratched mirror.

I get the basic concept

of myself, but it's distorted.

Maybe I'm not actually fat,

or ugly, or stupid,

but that's all

I can really see.

It's too scratched for

me to make out

anything important.

So I make it up myself.

7 days a week. 7 words. "He is the sun of my sky."

7 times, I read it, "the sun and the sky," wishing

candle light in the dark, moon rising over 7 seas.

Another someone's metaphor finding the write of

life. 7 dreams. I write it down, "He is the sun of

my sky."

He is the ocean of my soul. I sail 7 nights, a

sleeper in the waves, finding the high tide.

"You are the heart of a butterfly." He says. 7

more words are his. Seven universes I've flown to.

He is the beauty in the wings of our eagle song.

He is my write of life, filling the ink, moving

the pen over the words.

Every word dances. My thoughts are acrobatic.

Every message has a paper kite made of the reason.

I fly, to the arch of the rainbow in the rain. Soaring

through the moving clouds to the morning sun. He

fly's with me. We are One.

Diamond cutting onyx;

Ashen-coal, divine

Lily-white, bleached papyrus

Stained in crimson wine

Light erasing boundaries

Between my heart and yours

Cracking Silence’ binding

Gold written, gilded shores

Birdseed cast as pearls

a sneeze of wonder

marching in rows

of plant rainbows

starting new life

seeds of my mind.

I've only been to the beach once in my lifetime. But as bright and busy as it was, it remained my favorite place. In my dreams i would visit there in the dead of night and talk to the many who stood on the shore, or sat and let the waves wash over them. I can remember them all having interesting names but i could never retain any of them. I never saw the same person twice and at the end of each dream after a nice conversation and a new friend had been made, they would have to leave. I would wave to them as they entered into the ocean and lay down creating a bed of sea foam in their wake, until finally they'd dissappear but the seafoam would stay. Today i heard my brothers friends joke with him about the ocean saying things like "don't touch the seafoam or you'll be covered in mermaid." I didn't understand what he met until i looked it up. Turns out when mermaids die the turn into seafoam and float on top of the sea becoming one with the waves.

She's all the stars in the sky to me, lighting up my darkness, warming up and filling the cold emptiness of my soul. She brings life to otherwise lifeless places, both near and far. But as I write this, I know she's trying not to fall. Her gravity is all that's stopping my endless spiral, but I'd spiral forever to keep her in the sky. Everybody knows a falling star burns up, and I can't let that happen. Losing her would plunge the universe into a dense, cold, darkness that would never end, never let us free. So I don't fall, because I know she'd follow. Even if her life, her love, wouldn't affect the world, I'd still do anything to protect her, because I can't let her burn. I can't let her suffer. She makes up my world, her elements in everything I see, running through my veins, filling my lungs, dancing in my eyes. I love her, I always will. So please don't fall, my love, please don't fall.

She made mistake after mistake.

But the paper ripped when she tried to erase.

She trys to make work she is proud of.

But the paper ripped on the work for which she held no love.

The girl went up on the podium to give a speech.

But her paper ripped with a screech.

No second chances for your mistakes.

The paper rips when you try to erase.

I am sitting in my bedroom alone biting my nails, chipping away at the memory of you. A part of me falls to the floor, and just like that I am less. Less of a woman, less of a person. I wonder if this makes you happy, seeing me disintegrate before your eyes. I pick the clipping off the floor, put it in my mouth, and swallow. It stings going down, but I suppress the pain, just like I have done so many times before. In the bathroom, I file my nails until they are as smooth as the bay on a windless day. Trying to smooth the bumps that you created. Trying.

Tonight, as we gaze up into the night sky, you ask if I can see the little dipper.

We sprawl together across the grassy field beyond your bedroom window, backs pressed flat against the earth. I remember laying here when we were younger, narrowing my eyes just enough to block out the willow branches encroaching upon my view, and then it was just me and you and the stars. I felt as though I could fall right off the face of the earth back then, tumble headfirst into the clouds with your hand in mine.

If you didn't let go, I'd thought, I don't think I'd mind the fall.

For a moment, your question is met with silence. The distant hum of cicadas settles comfortably within the absence of our conversation, the chrip of crickets nestled within the swaying branches of the willow tree. I know if I looked, I would find your head turned to face me, hair tangled up and threaded with fallen branches as it had been when we were eight years old.

I smile. "Why ask when we both know you'll show me anyway?'

You laugh beside me, and for a moment I think gravity really has reversed and thrown us freefalling into the sky. It's only butterflies. When I turn, you're smiling too, long hair splayed out across the grass as the stars reflect in your eyes. "Hey, give me a break!"

"Well," I say, laughing along, "It's true, isn't it? You always loved telling people all about the mythology behind them. Remember that time with my mom?"

You turn away, face burning at the memory. "Oh god, I can't believe she can look me in the eye after that." Shaking your head, you fall back with a sigh. The insects engulf the absence of our voices once again, a cool breeze drifting across my skin.

"Hey," You say, "I know its annoying, but could I still tell you about the little dipper?"

I laugh, becuase the idea of your talks annoying me is so ridiculous I can't help it, and your face twists into a frown. "As if any of your stories could be annoying," I tell you, "You're like, a natural born storyteller. Whoever came up with the original constellation stories would be honored to hear you gushing about them."

"The Ancient Greeks," You say.

"See? There you go. I have no idea how you hold so much knowledge inside that tiny head of yours. You're brilliant. Probably the smartest person I know."

You sit abruptly to stare at me, wide-eyed like you were all those years ago. I catch a flicker of confusion within your gaze before it melts into understanding, into something kinder that I am unable to place. If I were as smart as you, I might call it love.

"So," I continue, gesturing towards the sky, "Go on, tell me as many time as you'd like. I'd listen to you forever if I could, but the sun always rises eventually."

You shot me a smile before flopping back onto the grass. I watch, transfixed, as you raise a hand to point out each star comprising the constellation and connect them together, explaining each story along the way.

Tonight, I imagine the hands of our ancient ancestors tracing the ceiling of this world, passing stories down through the generations in a tongue neither of us can speak. I see the way their fingertips trace each pinprick of light amid the darkness, pulling them together until they connect. Humans, it seems to me, have always been drawn to stars.

Tonight, I imagine us tumbling down into the cosmos to drift among the stars, hand in hand as we had been all those years ago. I imagine someone still standing on earth, fingertips outstretched to connect our constellations.

It seems fitting, to be drawn together like this. It had always been the two of us here among the stars, and I couldn't imagine it any other way.

You dive into another explanation, reciting the stories you have known by heart since Kindergarden, and I smile. Eventually, the sun will rise to chase away the night, and your stories will end, but for now, I close my eyes and listen.

I find your words more beautiful than the view.