Young Writers Society

something has started here,
forged in the gas clouds of nebulas
before dispersing into dust.

you might have claimed
that we were from the same star,
but i don’t think our atoms are alike at all:
i am recreating myself, renewing the cells in my body
into one that will never have known you.

i think i’m starting to drag you in too close:
there is poison spilling out of me like hawking radiation,
and i’m worried that gravity’s going to tear you apart.
it might be that it’s too late for you to escape. it might be
that i don’t ever want you to.

i should start by picking a spot in the galaxy
and chaining myself to it, then tell you
that some disasters are meant to be watched from a distance.

confessions don’t last long with the oxygen gone,
but i’ll get this one out of my lungs anyway:
i’m not sure that you can ever know peace
as long as you know me.

some disasters shouldn’t be saved.

if you were the moon, then i was the waves,
tearing up the shores at your bidding
while you swung around the sky.
i should’ve had better things to do than rip up sand.
i should’ve had better things to do than listen to you
when my compass was always pointing elsewhere.

we should get to be the people under a spell
three floors below, the two night owls
lost on a street bench and finding their way
through stumbling conversations over
who has the brighter eyes, the more heavenly smile.
i should get to believe you when you say that it’s me,
it’s the angel hair that seals the deal,
it’s the wings i don’t know about anymore
that got me this far and then to you.
you should get to close your eyes for a while
and not have to worry about the bird
that’s up and singing too early before dawn,
the one that’s too heavy when it lands on your shoulder.

in these last hours, i only see a few colors,
when my eyes have adjusted to the darkness
to choose clarity over beauty.
you’ve reprinted the old photos of us,
swapping out the ones in the frames
for a new black-and-white look,
saying that it represents us better in the moment
and you won’t be wasting color on me when i’m blind to it.

i am only seeing blue now. i used to be able
to see red but i’ve gotten too tired to be angry at you.

you say that i’m turning gray now
whenever the sun’s down, but you’re wrong—
you just can’t see that it’s actually silver
gleaming in cold moonlight,
can’t see that as the sky gets lighter,
the girl in the photograph is a rainbow again.

i should tell the stars about myself.

here is a story that i know matters:
i was a secret admirer with a jealous streak,
who wanted to spin the constellations
into thin lines to match her veins
and trap the light between her palms
like a kid who had caught a firefly.
i want to come forward and say i’ve changed.
i want to prove that i’m willing to share this sky.

i should tell the stars who i became.

here is a confession that i need to make:
i’ve never been sure whether i was supposed
to serenade the universe or be honest to it about its flaws,
but i’ve criticized this galaxy as much as myself
when i would’ve been better off loving both of us.
now that i’ve mapped out where my heart has been,
i’m realizing that i’ve made my way back to the start
and that i’m ready to love the world again.
i think i’m happy down here. i have daybreak on my side.