Starlight.

I heard once
that we are all made
of stardust,
though sometimes it feels as though
I am made
with a black hole
at my core,
void of light
and joy
and hope of escape.
Sometimes I feel like
a natural disaster -
leaving trails of
despair
and destruction
wherever I go -
but you insist that I am
an act of God;
that good will always follow the bad,
and somehow make it
worth something.

I often find myself in awe
of how you manage to handle me
when I feel as though
the slightest contact with my skin
can burn,
or how you talk to me calmly
when I feel as though
my tongue is a blade,
and
every
word
I
speak
can leave scars.

I am left convinced
that you are
the survivor in the wreckage
of my bitterness.
You are
the sunlight shining through
broken roof tiles,
and the flower growing
between the cracks
of pavement slabs,
and sometimes
when I look into your eyes
I swear
I'm seeing
star light.