*trigger warning: mention of suicide ideations*
**PSA: I am okay**

I was born on the cusp,
and while I’ve never bought into the idea
of the moon manipulating behaviors,
I’m running out of explanation
for my displacement.

My bones ache with a sorrow
that was created when space expanded.
It formed with the atoms
and leaked into the stars,
wove it’s way into galaxies
and wound up in my marrow.
When I die,
perhaps I, too, will heat up
and expand into vast universes.

Maybe I’ll evaporate.

I’m conditioned to believe that
there exists a slot for me to place myself,
made just for me to find.
But, as I grow older,
and lines appear on my face
like maps from the places
I should have never gone,
but did anyway,
I’m losing interest in finding my place.
I am so unsettled.

Maybe I’ll walk into the sun.

Perhaps,
in years to come,
I can combat the worried lines
on my forehead with sun spots
and scars and crows feet
from experience
and my own terrible luck
and joy.

Maybe I’ll kill myself.