When you start to crack open,
well, that’s it. Your old stuff
starts leaking out like lava
from a fresh fissure,

hot and messy, and yes,
you want to get away from
that. As if you could.
As if you could gather

it all back up with a
big ol’ spoon and pour
it back into you. Never
gonna work. Not

supposed to. Instead,
that new self is yummy
egg yolk, the color of
the golden daisies

still well-petaled in
the front yard. What’s
spilling from your interior
is sunlight, my dear,

straight from you into
the world, fiery magma
newly expelled from
the interior of a planet.

Like tears, it’s not meant
to be gathered. It’s meant
to be spread around
indiscriminately,

everywhere, for everyone,
into everything, which is
what sunlight does.
You’re sunshine now,

lovely one, and you
can’t—you shouldn’t—
do anything but let
yourself shine.