Above the filthy hills of my insolent mind, a sun rising. Ideas are suns and stories are planets of diamond that revolve around them, cold and spectacular. This sun is chartreuse and smells vaguely of old valentine’s candy. My private planets puncture preconceived notions of orbital perfection. A circle is a key. Perfection is grift. I long to embody a sun so bright God will put on sunglasses and say, “Well done, daughter. Enjoy the thrill of uncontained creation.” But I am constantly dimmed by insanity, a comet that flies overhead and casts a long shadow into my life
Miniature Moon 