Space is trying to murder you.
It’s not personal. Nature abhors an individual.

Skin is permeable. Voyager pierced
the flesh of interstellar space,
a gold needle carrying the 1970s,
a flashy curse on other suns.

That void that is not a void
can swallow you up, yank you around,
smash you through.

Go on, existing.

You are gravity and surface tension
and air pressure, cerebrospinal fluid,
gut microflora, skull sutures.

You eat atoms
egested by supernovae
before the Earth was born.

You borrowed your body.
You get to keep your name.