My Cells Are Made Of Stars

My cells are made of stars.

The roots
that sprouted from their scars.
The original messiahs
who shone and expired
so brightly,
flickering out
like far off fairy lights
hung up nightly
just to celebrate the sky.

I too
will flicker out.
This time will pass us by.
And I too
will be less electric.
And you.

But, for now
we are the centre of the universe.
Both made up of stars
and scars.
Everyone glows,
built out of borrowed bits,
of poetry
and prose
and ink in skin
and late night philosophy,
and me?

I’m still stitching the bits of myself together.

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