Once my dearest friend told me she was afraid she was a black hole, that no light would ever escape her again. I reminded her that the quasar of a black hole is the brightest thing in the whole universe. That surrounding her was a light that could never be matched composed of every element she could name, burning. Where all matter refused to go gently into and loved too fondly to be fearful of the night that lies at the end of all things, the heat death of the universe, the unknown stillness at the center of a black hole. The night in the center of her chest where sometimes there is more darkness, more hurt than breath that she is certain it will swallow the world whole. There is more light and life and brilliant mutiny surrounding her, made by her, caused by her, intrinsically tied to her, in existence solely because of her than she can imagine.