An Unscientific View of Embodiment

You might not recognize it at first
But my body is made of stars.

I did not know this for too many lifetimes
But I know it now and I am saying it out loud so I don't forget

I am made of stars.
I am the world's hipsterest constellation
Stars so obscure, hipsters haven't even  heard of them
Sparrow major and spero minor are only two of many

I have not always been kind to my body
I cut and pasted words from magazines onto construction paper
and mailed myself bomb threats
I held my breath hostage

I think I thought people wouldn't hear my body
if I silenced it in overlarge clothing
but the body speaks even when we don't want it to
It takes up space, even when we think ourselves nothing

And I am sorry now for all the times I asked my body for a divorce
And grateful now for all the times my body said no
It doesn't work like that
We don't get to be incorporeal: this is not a practice run

One day I ripped to ribbons the books I wrote on how not to be heard
I took a sledgehammer to the bricks I threw through my own windows
And a machete to the paintings of the times I made my body a carcass instead of a holy place
And I didn't think anything would be left.
I thought if I stopped hating myself I would run out of passion.

But what remained were the ingredients for paper-mache
And an insistent burning that reminded me
I can make of my heart a black hole
Or a solar system

I am made of stars
I give off heat and light
If you come close enough you can feel the warmth
You can see the glow