I tried to speak last night, but the words caught on something in my throat. I coughed up light. Soft, shimmering fragments. A whole galaxy, maybe.

My mother once told me that I talk too much, but how do you hold silence when your chest is full of constellations? I memorized entire skies just to tell you how I felt.

Orion curled under my tongue. Cassiopeia lined the roof of my mouth. I wanted to say, "I love you." But it came out like stardust. It scattered before it reached your ears.

No one teaches you how to translate the language of the universe. No one teaches you how to whisper in lightyears. I try again and again, but it’s like shouting through a black hole.

You look at me with human eyes. You say, "Why can’t you just talk like everyone else?" I want to say, "Because the words I feel were never built for gravity."

I want to say, "Because the moment I open my mouth, everything divine spills out." But I just smile. And close my lips. Because the truth is,

I have a mouthful of stars.

And they are not ready to die.

.

They/Them ~ She/Her ~ He/They