all that i am inside of

In biology,

we learn that there are so many tiny things

in the interior of our cells

nucleus/cytoplasm/mitochondria/ribosomes/golgi apparatus

floating.

My interior,

it holds my feelings

the words I won't say

because the words I used to say

came out wrong,

the way my heart beats for certain things

that only certain people

may ever know,

pulsing.

My home,

interior of red and white polka dot chairs

from the background of blurry photos

of my four year old blonde curls

that I now curl up in

not everyone gets polka dot armchairs that are their for their whole growing up there for them to be

safe.

Here we are in Vermont

the interior of sticks and rivers

and sometimes it feels like it's always stick season

with slush-mud and unironic flannels and stacks of wood

this interior of old farmers and young protesters

dichotomy.

I was born in America,

this interior

this barrier

that people claim lets everyone good in keeps everyone bad out

like a cell membrane

but cell membranes must mess up,

and anyway

being born

in this interior

it's granted me 

permission.

We're inside the atmosphere

we're all breathing

in/out

this interior that keeps us alive

we're all inside

to stay alive,

together.

We're in the interior of the stars,

in some way,

this star soup

rushing around us spinning

no interior in some ways

but protecting us

as we live out our lives

among them

among the stars

floating.