Dust
I am made of muscle and bone and blood and sinew and skin and hair and eyes and teeth and guts and fingers and toes. I am made of stories and songs and poems and the places I’ve been and the places I haven’t and the people before me and the tears I’ve shed and the tears I’ve caused and the things I’ve torn and the hearts I’ve broken and all of those things that have broken my heart. I am made of late nights and early mornings and jobs I didn’t like and jobs that didn’t like me and books and movies and probably too many of both. I am made of those who have loved me and those who didn’t and those I have loved and those I didn’t and all of the things I want to tell my children and I’m not sure I will get to. I am made of darkness and loneliness and thinking too much and not doing enough and the voices in my head telling me I will never be enough. I am made of light and of love and of a heart so big it constantly overflows into a flood of feelings no one, myself included, can truly understand. I am made of endless contradictions and complications and consecrations and elevations and protestations and so much confusion I cannot describe. I am made of the dust. But that dust is made from the stars.