I like the idea of myself

as a decaying isotope,

radioactive and repulsive,

steadily losing mass

until I’m dense and cold

at my core.

Every emitted particle is

just another poisonous piece of me

lost to the universe

and the worst part is that

I’m ready to be refined;

centrifuged and molded

for the slow, moderated burn

of a lifetime providing peaceful power.

But instead I’m hidden contraband,

stolen and smuggled,

irradiating every unsuspecting courier

unfortunate enough to come in contact

with this thinly shielded vessel

that contains my dirty bomb

of a heart.