i think stars taste like tinfoil

i think stars taste like tinfoil.
hearts are always wine-
dark, tempered,
stomach-stirred,
ripe like my mother’s
berries, our saved
summers. but stars
are crisp, sharp-edged, burnt
hollow, stamped static.
they taste warm
until the blood stops
tasting sweet and
starts tasting like metal
again. and a few times a year
i wrap myself up and
i werewolf myself
into something
i’m not, someone
i’d be better as, maybe,
but what do i know?
i can’t keep rebuilding
everything
i’ve burnt. i’m exhausted.
i can’t keep this up. my
blood clots like clay, and
the honeycomb dries, and
i wish i could spit myself out.
i wish everything felt like
the first bite of a star
tastes.