i don’t
mean to sound distressed.
my stories
of cracking ribs
and heaving breaths
are not stories
of my brokenness.
rather, they
are stories of my wholeness.
as the stars
love the sky, i love
my heart.
i love my mind.
what inadequacy could
ever exist?
my heartbeat is syncopated
with the excitement of
the stars -
how am i a statistical improbability?
how am i impossible?
i am completely
average
and normal
and run-of-the-mill
in this universe
-and what is that?
perfection.
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