Big Bang

We are all star people:
Ribs always rocking with fusion,
fingers always splayed to the light,
mouth and wrists dripping cool blue.

My fear glows.
My fear glows through the slits in my wrists,
and the ropes of my strung-out knuckles,
through the seams of my neon binders
trying to crush the LADY out of me and the breath back in,

I am trying to squeeze my chest so hard
grooves will form on my sides and someone
with come and fill them with their arms.

In the cracks, my body is wet and hot.
You can feel the stars forming inside me,
the asteroids in my rainstick bones,
the magma of my heart always thudding toward supernova.

You can see, below the surface, the void,
the greyness slithering like a layer of grease under my skin.

It’s holding in my explosion chest,
and my leaking veins.
And I want to dig at it with a razor
until I feel its elusive silkiness in my fingers,
and pull it out of me in handfuls,

like climbing to the top of the earth
and ripping my head through the atmosphere
to finally feel the sun on my face.

Without the atmosphere
the sun will burn through the earth;
without the greyness
my stars and galaxies and blackness and light
will burn through my skin.

That will be me,
the raging redness, the half-formed suns and crashing stars,
sprayed across the blankness of space,
sparking like an engine ticking purples and blues:

This is my bursting body.

This is how universes are born.