Space Struck

by Paige Lewis

Otherwise you’ve just got world around you and who’s going to pay for that? Your father? Actually, let’s not talk about fathers, they are boring and offer clumsy advice

I’m the vice president of panic, and the president is missing.

And I’m sure there’s an alternate universe where my gaze is unwavering, where I’m paid to name the newest nail polish colors—Fiddlehead Green, Feral Red, Geothermal Glitter—where I don’t hate documentarians for letting nature be its gruesome self.

All constellations are organisms and all organisms are divine and unfixed.

learned that a miracle is anything that God forgot to forbid.

It’s that you’re telling me about the dull slivers of dead saints, while these women are glowing beneath our feet.

if you consider the fact that I’m a miserable excuse for a planet.

I move through life like I’m trying to avoid a stranger’s vacation photo.

Lately, I’ve been feeling betrayed by names: the king cobra isn’t a cobra, the electric eel isn’t an eel, and it turns out my anger was fear all along.

See, I’m afraid I’m not used to this much control. I’m a miserable excuse for a weapon.

I ask God if He considers me a cracked seed of grace. He says, Yes, dear.

It’s selfish to want to witness awe— to stand in a museum and shift your gaze between the painting and your reflection in its frame.

LAST NIGHT I DREAMED I MADE MYSELF your paperweight.