On bad days I like to pretend the universe knows me.
That she’s memorized the way I pick at my split ends,
how my left eye’s only lazy in photos, how I grew up
dreaming of one day becoming the patron saint of
something wild. Like bad poetry or bipolar disorder
or far too much passion to fit inside a five-foot-five
frame. Imagine that— being martyred for a cause
worth dying for. Even now I’d still die for emotion.
I fantasize over the stars knowing the things I hold
secret to my soul, of the moon looking back at me
in complete understanding. All of these celestial
bodies daring to acknowledge my own, choosing
to find the horror film starlet crying on the floor
of the shower, mourning the loss of belief. I am
no saint. I like to imagine the universe seeing this—
that she could recognize the expression on my face.
I like to pretend she’s been observing me for twenty
years. That she saw the flicker in my eye when I was
born and knew that I’d be the patron saint of trying.
Holy fantasies, how you consume me. The cosmos
could not be more indifferent, yet the dream rages on.