Read Poem: At the Edge of the Universe, by Brooke Woodworth

When you left me, I flew with mighty black wings to the edge of a black hole. It was there that I thought I might find you, yet.

Pain never felt so exquisite as it did in your absence. The fire of the void of you licked at me — flames of my own personal Hell.

The pain of you was my ecstasy. One which I had no intention of letting go. The pain was the only part of you that was still mine.

It was here I challenged God Herself, at the threshold of the Universe. It was here that I scratched and screamed and choked on impossible tears.

There were many things I endured.

Her mighty hand once reached inside me, and reminded me. What was I without Her?

She ripped out the part that made me whole.

The fall.

The fall, where I learned about infinity. Who wants to live forever, always wanting more?

At the end of eternity, I endured the cold. Frozen was the lake of the Morningstar.

It was here that we learned why the Lightbringer was so singularly talented at burning.

He did what he had to. He burned the only thing there was to burn.

The fallen ones who man the bell tower at the gates of Dis still scream with the pain of his fire.

Out of the pit, I climbed for you. For seven days, I climbed. For I am the wicked, and you know what they say about our rest.

To leave the pit, I had to change. I was the first to learn what it was to be baptized by fire.

I was the first to be baptized by the kiss of Hell.

To be of Hell is to endure. And I could endure.

But not you. If there was one thing I could not endure, it was the absence of you.

And so I stared into a dead star and witnessed a billion suns rush past, eager to join.

Me and my black wings, at a singularity.

My love was always a gravitational, crushing sort of thing. You said that. Do you remember?

So fine. I’ll meet you there. When you’re ready to be loved, I’ll meet you at the edge of the universe, at the grave of a long dead star.