The Sun to me is *

my one consolation,

as if it were mine

at its rise.

I wake in star form,

iris to iris —

the original glass in me

burning forward,

then bursting out in dented fragments of

light articulation:

the feeling of being known

for a few silent, sparkling, seconds

before my borrowed eyelids close —

confusion folds in 

skin

and I feel paper again 

to someone else's concept of fire.

C. LJ Ireton, 2026 

(*From Frankenstein's monster)