Posted by & filed under eggs past.

Paige A. Miller

We pasted stars to my ceiling.
At night they glow and I am
comforted, thinking of an afterlife
as a diaspora of atoms loose in the universe.
Someday I will experience death
as an intimate supernova,
flinging my molecules into the void.
A truth: energy is neither created
nor destroyed.
We can all choose divinity.

For now I will be the patron saint of
diet coke and hidden tattoos,
my wisdom teeth hanging
around my neck as a reminder.
I will wear my stretch marks as
badges of honor and seek out pleasure.
Using shamelessness as a weapon, I
savor abundance; I become voluptuous.
I will be a cartographer, mapping
the future by my tarot deck and
smoke signals from my mouth,
pink and round as the strawberry moon.

I am teen witch supreme,
the horoscope queen,
arrayed in citrine and quartz.
I am fierce in my love and
protective of my own.
I apologize no longer for this wildness.