I was born of dark matter and dark energy, clouds of dust and shrapnel.
I was born of ugly things, hard times, fragments of decay
and somehow turned into something beautiful: an entire universe.
You may be born of blood and guts and a hand
that would rather slice the wrist attached to it
than live for one more day, but expand.
Expand instead, just like me. Expand with heat and rage
and all the light left inside you, all the stars;
grow until you are so big you swallow your own darkness.
I wish you love affairs and lightning storms,
roses without thorns, things that grew from dirt and filth
like me into strong and powerful,
into ready and willing and surviving.
So recreate your own existence.
Shape it with your own hands into one you want to actually exist in.
Because you may want the sand in the hour glass to run out,
to tie the noose or jump off the bridge,
but even sand can form stars.
I would know.
So stay.
If only for one more day.