The world is infinite and my brain is infinite and those infinities were not meant to clash. The beauty of the skull is the wall of it all. But, the confines of my head are no longer working and I'm a blending of brain and universe.
I have nebulae pouring out of suture joints, the galaxies inside me oozing like an oil spill in the Atlantic. Seagulls explode damaged guts like supernovas, those dying stars mourning lost homes.
The home inside of me leaks and I'm left floating by my grip on cosmic dust, adrift and bleeding.
It takes a special kind of needle to stitch up the seams. An interstellar bridge builder pouring concrete in the mould of my spine. Thank you, Earth. Thank you, Gravity. Thank you to the rabbit that burrows under my scapula, choosing to reside in me when I can't even reside in myself. The weight of the world bores into my up-facing palms, promising me I can stand if only I learn to kneel first.
I listen to the poets who profess a bridge is worth more than a wall, where helicopters no longer have to airdrop supplies nor iPhones airdrop photos, east and west Berlin united once again. But the story Banksy won't tell is that the reason he keeps his identity a secret is that pseudointellectual shit is embarrassing.
My mom makes tuna casserole for dinner and berates my sister for being sad. I am pooling on the living room floor. I am forgotten to the universe, who doesn't care if I'm solid or liquid, because I was never distinct from it anyways.