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Ziggy's Stardust


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Ziggy's Stardust

Light from an ugly moon

strains and slides through

the cracks in my ceiling,

making the bare walls of

my room turn a sickly shade

of pale.


My raised fist clenches

around its swollen fullness,

grasps, blots out the moon.

I have blotted out the moon.

A glowing handful of rock

and dirt and dust.


It's just a star, really.

Some burning chunk

of space leavings spinning

through the ink-spilled sky.

It's only stars falling white-

ash burnt dust into my eyes,

making them tear and sweat.


It's only stars in my chest,

heating my lungs until I can

only choke out silvery grains

of crushed stone, coughing,

breathing in light and flame.

Just stars in my chest,

writhing with a new pulse

that echoes at my wrists and

beats time in my head.


I'm holding the moon.

There are stars in my chest.

I'm holding the moon.

How can I let go?

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