I am

 

made

of stardust,

so science

recognized.

 

Grandules measured

by two sets

of metaled

hands.

 

My mind

a split open galaxy,

bleeding

midnight thoughts.

 

I am

 

created

of debris,

society

decided.

 

My veins

are gutters

filled with

murdered dreams.

 

Secrets

hidden in

quiet crevices,

amongst saltwater.

 

A body

outlined

in newspaper

headlines.

 

Walking on

gasoline,

creating stained

glass on pavement.

 

I am

 

seams broken,

opened by

misuse;

thrown together

and sewn.

 

I am

 

a path, God says.

Standing room only,

numbers taken,

shoes undusted.

 

I am

 

a string of words

left unsaid,

falling out,

like raindrops.

 

I am

 

a constellation

powered by

overcrowded

outlets.

 

I am

 

stardust,

lines of debris

someone forgot

to burn.

 

A road map

18 years outdated,

kept in

a glove box.