My teacher once asked,
how small?
He paused and then replied,
we’d look from space
like bugs.
But I couldn't feel right to believe,
because bugs are so much more beautiful
than the façade of confidence
that glows from our face,
caked in oil and paint.
Is that visible from space?
The immortality we feint?
The joy derived from our vanity?
Stolen from the earth
because someone once said it was beautiful,
and if it’s beautiful
it must be ours.
Or maybe it’s the second derivative,
which shows little more than how much our hearts
break over time?
Our heart which loves to wither,
from smoke smelling sweet
and blades plastered in glitter.
I question, does it look more pretty
to kill with a sparkly knife?
Is there any joyful loss of pain?
Will those soft gleams of jewels coated in
crimson love and acid rain
be visible from space?
Maybe from the heavens,
there’s no way for us to be seen
till we detonate the atom bomb
we so jealousy become giddy over.
But even then,
will anybody be left
to see its golden crown of kindness
from space?