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  • Emily Chamichyan

star girl


Jars of dust

sit atop my shelves,

remains of burnt stars,

fallen stars, stolen from the sky,

taken down from their rooftop stage,

left astray, to be stepped upon,

collected, crushed,

packed and sealed into glass jars,

too insignificant to gaze upon anymore.

Orion has left his place in the sky,

made his way to the land

of the living, searching for his

companions, his soldiers.

In their place he finds shells

of their once unmarred bodies.



A girl with silver hair

runs across a field,

glitter smeared across her face,

eyeshadow stained to her fingertips.

Her eyes find the sky above her,


left to gaze upon the moon.

There she sits,

wondering why she feels dizzy,

why her eyes are swimming,

why the disco lights have blinded her.

There she lays,

glowing a different color,

although the blue is too bright

to know which one.




The blue canvas has turned white,

the paint is no longer golden,

no longer warm,

no longer there.

The color is smeared,

crushed across the canvas

in sparks of gray,

too plain,

too quiet,

too bland to look up at.

The long towers

have disappeared,

become long streaks of tears

dipping down the eyelids

of the glowing paint brush.


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