Freckles
The freckles on my skin are not constellations.
They are marks of where
This world's light has pierced me.
Arrows rained down from the heaven
Shot from the arc of the sky
And the sun was her bow.
And I'm glad to be the target.
My freckles are marks hit
With no days missed
They puncture my skin and hold me to this world.
For some reason I think without them
I'd float away
And become my own constellation.
So I'm happy to be stuck here
With the suns arrows
Poking out of my forearm and left ear.
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