In my dreams, I am a jet setter.

My homebody ways melt into stardust

And I radiate pearlescence, grinning from ear to ear—the set I got from my grandfather—

I’ve grown into them

And out of the baby Yoda references.

My fat sheds into moss,

My bones are golden and my flesh fertile soil harboring harvest secrets—

Organs dripping diamonds, sparkling like the dull glimmer of my eyes outshined by daylight.

Tripping over my tongue as I tied the words together—

Any words—

When the inspiration ran dry in my consciousness—

My slumber evoked images of stellar collisions,

A match set to the gasoline rotting inside my veins,

My creative spark erupted into an inferno.

The oldest story ever told was that of betrayal.

Deny your maker—as the daughters of Eve went looking for a snake to charm.

Crawling through my garden,

Poisoning the fruit and wilting the roses.

I am barren in the waking world

But as I sleep, I birth a thousand poems.

My children spring from my brain as a fully-fledged thought—

Armored with battle gear, Athena reincarnated.

I am no Zeus.

And I didn’t grow you in my garden,

But as I was wandering one day,

You were in full bloom and told me you were ready to live on my windowsill, soaking in light and drinking the good water from the kitchen tap.