I dream of shelves with jars.
In the jars are drifting glittery pieces of me.
They catch the light like dust motes.
They sparkle.

The jars stretch on and on,
well past what I can see from where I stand.
They glow and shimmer and change.

When I look at my body,
I see where the pieces came from.
Where there would be my own skin,
is a carapace of darkness, with some glimmer.
It's a hard shell of dark.
Housing a core of light.

Yes, there are some regrets.