I think I love space because that empty, floating feeling is inside of my ribs all the time.
My pulsing heart and inflated lungs reek of gasoline and burned rubber.
The Vella Pulsar is my heart, ticking and beating, sending soundwaves out into the darkness. We can hear it. You can press your ear to my chest and hear it, but no one knows why it beats or what it’s saying. If it matters. I don’t know.
The star nurseries are born underneath my skin, burning into freckles if they stay hot enough. In the summers they burn onto my cheeks and my shoulders, evidence of the time spent breathing in the universe and letting go.
The exploding stars tend to be the worst. They are born just fine in my skull and my throat and my fingers, but as they burn it’s too hot and too much and too much and too much. Exploding stars don’t stop. No. They explode in a furious light and fade into the worst of all.
The few, the unending, the black hole.
They are unimaginably small when looking from the surface of the Earth. Hard to spot in all the spaces between galaxies. Hard to avoid. Impossible, scientifically.
The black hole in my throat eats the Pulsar, the nurseries, everything.