As she walks, she drags her fingertips across me, like she can fix me.
I already told her it’s pointless, but she perseveres. She spins her hair around, twisting it in the air, until she has a neat bun of black hole resting above her neck. It sucks on my skin as it goes, as she goes, trying to get the edge off. Her skin, it’s all dark. Freckled with Milky Way smeared like Vaseline all over her, with stars cut out of paper. Her enamel is made of stardust. When she walks, she cracks; her feet are made of broken glass, crackling energy left unexplained. She walks slowly, limpingly, because it hurts her. All of this. The rebuilding, the rerebuilding, the turbulent sighs that scatter helium fragments all over me. She wants to change me. She needs to. Well. She may be Universe Girl, but I am the Universe, and I will never change. I tell her that every day, kissing her moon-sliced mouth with dark matter and Vaseline clouds that give her sores. She looks at me with those planet eyes, swimming and swarming, gaseous arms stretching veils of toxins over themselves in disguise. Her eyes are misty; they’re always misty. On the verge of crying. You can’t fix me, I whisper to her, and you never will. That makes her cry sometimes. But she always gets up afterward. She always hikes up her mountain skirt, tightens her Saturn belt, and walks again. Limpingly, but it’s walking. The galactic glass cracks underneath her, reflecting prisms of color to nowhere. She wields her hands like swords. She waves and bends them around me, caressing me like a child, and settles my carbon hair straight. She kisses my cool subzero forehead until a planet comes out of her mouth, glistening with ethereal saliva. She brushes her DNA strands of hair aside and goes to work. I’ve always been fascinated with space, how it doesn’t care about me. I told her once that all life is meaningless and she cried again. Then she wiped her planet eyes and took a long breath. I will restore order to the universe, she said. Ha. Ha ha.