Pricked my finger on the spindle

I'm spinning in my head
a child's solar system that breaks
and then evolves, sun of recycled
styrofoam, a thousand voices
once called home, the cool
incandescence of the space held in the hand,
a palm covered in string and pin-dots
the scars of speaking and
being spoken to, of being formed
from the nebulous clouds of creation

Unlike the science fair exhibit, I
am unloveable, impossible to
deconstruct and then fill up again,
no cardboard box of marker stelae made
with sticky fingers. I revolve, yet
no wool forms over these words.
If I am the spinning wheel, then where
is the spinner? If I am a solar system,
what then is my heart?