-Nebulae-

    I saw you take the stars in your palms and swallow them like pills and liquor. They lit up your veins until your freckles became constellations, your crooked joints dying planets and your eyes nebulas or black holes or astral light that swallowed me up, up, up. I was always told to look away from the sun, but they never warned me about supernovae, about gas clouds and collapsing universes, so how was I supposed to know about you?

    Was it all a dream, or did my sky boy truly have the heavens inside his chest? Was it a miracle, or are miracles simply truths that are too much for our comprehension? Because I think you were a miracle, in your own little way. My child of light, my comet-catcher, my star-shaper, my alchemist of agony and awe: abused, abandoned, absolute. For what happens when you stare at the abyss and the abyss stares back, but the abyss is not made of darkness but of dark matter? What happens when looking into the abyss is not looking down, but up?  What happens when the abyss is more than just that: what happens when oblivion is not an idea, but a person? I know what happens, but I won’t tell. How could I? You’d have to feel it to understand.

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My final piece of my art class: hopefully I can get an I with this, as my professor told me I needed to work more on "ideas" and symbolism in my work. Listened this and this.

art, writing (c) me