Stars all die.

We are the girls with gut-wrenching pain,

paralyzed by our own voices,

fingers that move across typewriter keys,

typing out everything we can't say out loud

to a world that doesn't want to hear our cries for help.

The dreamers,

the long-haired beauties reaching for infinity.

Papers and pens and words that spill out of our fingertips with reckless abandon.

The day the world ends is a day we'll all write about until the stars explode,

one after another,

right to left the skies will dim until the endless darkness swallows everything,

the giant balls of nitrogenous fire

disappearing with a flick of the wrist.

Running, running,

trees that fall when no one can hear them,

(Do they make a sound?

Do they make a sound?)
Gravestones that feel like oceans,

graveyards in the center of galaxies,

skeletons in the closet combusting with the force of an atomic bomb.

The end of the world is just another dot on the timeline of infinite youth.

Invincible, and pale-skinned,

girls that don't understand the meaning of 'no',

because we'll do whatever it takes just to get to the day that tells us who we are

and where we're going.

Yeah, we're independent,

we don't need a male to help us survive,

but we do need a boy to kiss our lips,

and tell us everything will be fine in the dark hours of the early morning

when insomnia takes our breath away,

and the panic sets in

and we'll wonder why we're even here in the first place.

He'll kiss the pale wrists,

kiss the feathers drawn there,

whispering breaths,

saying:

“Remember this, remember this,

the secret to life, the universe, and everything:

Eve fell for the apple first.”

Shaking hands.

Forever Yours,

Rachel.