Smiling from above with your glazed eyes and bruised knuckles, you’re a galaxy, baby, with the lilac and blue that blooms across milky skin.

You’ve always got a quiver in your voice and drumming against your skull, velvet that leaks out the second you open your mouth. Every moment is an epiphany, the silver-lined smoke that clouds your mind.

You don’t have eyes like stars or a voice like liquid gold, but that’s alright— what you’ve got is strength, the quiet resilience that remains buried in flesh and bone. It is the power to silence an entire room with a single gaze, the power to find comfort in the singularity. A silent rebellion is flaring in your soul every moment, one that does not require eloquence or silken words that flow off your tongue. It is the rebellion of the quiet that claws its way out of your ribcage when it is needed.

And when you explode, the whole world pauses for a second and trembles— it trembles because of the force that shakes it to the core, the blinding brightness that burns into its retinas. But dear, your radiance is also your end.