Star Stuff (Or, How the Universe Forces You to Be What You Are) by Shelley Gaske

I was a little girl for a long time. I tried to stay little. It was safer.

Mom had migraines. While her vision bled, I played alone in silence.

Dad always wore his “Do Not Disturb” sign, and so I did not.

I was to stay small, confined. Within accepted parameters.

The problem, the truth, was I was infinite inside.

Worlds 

And worlds and worlds and 

Worlds

The infinite leaked.

I received quaint admonishments: called a space cadet, a day dreamer, a girl who wouldn’t gain the interests of boys. 

The infinite whispered there was so much more.

I couldn’t stay in such a little space. I’d played quietly. I’d said thank you for adopting me. I’d never acted out.

And as the infinite grew, and I learned to swim in multiple realities. 

Here and not here.

Everywhere.

I was a spy, a hero, a prodigy, a writer, a secret weapon too gorgeous for anyone to consider restricting to just ‘little.’

I could exist, co-exist, multi-exist.

I observed the little world around me, just enough that it didn’t notice 

Where and what 

I really was:

An expanse.