Burning writing stories

starbreather Just a gal who likes to write.
Autoplay OFF   •   4 years ago
A teenage girl sits in a field and ponders the stars, ponders their burning and perhaps yearns to burn herself.


She felt her shirt grow damp against the wet grass she laid on, but ignored the heavy fabric as she stared at the stars above her.

They glimmered and glowed and she appreciated the light they created more than the moon’s illuminations.

The teenager wondered if their beauty had been cultivated over their years of creation or if they had been born with their light.

If stars truly were reflections of past human souls, did they shine with the amount of goodness that belonged to their owner?

She shifted in the grass. The dew that was left from the rain hours ago made her wet shirt gather and clump in between her shoulder blades.

Ordinarily she would have found it uncomfortable but today she didn't mind.

Recently the girl had felt disconnected from herself, maybe it was from lack of sleep or the catastrophes that had crept into her life,

but her mind was separated from her body and the pulling of her shirt, the wetness and dirt staining the back of her bare calves and heels, somehow grounded her back to her physical being.

A small breath escaped her lips as she imagined what her star would like look, if she would have one at all.

Her finger dug into the cool grounds and dirt gathered beneath her fingernails, or what was left of the nubs after her constant picking and biting.

After deliberation, she decided that when she died she did not deserve a star. She didn't have enough grace and love within her to encompass a ball of tightly strung energy.

She barely had any energy at all.

Even if stars were mandatory after death, hers would burn out quickly, but not like a fire that dies early from burning too brightly, she would implode quietly and remain unnoticed.

That was what she wished for now-to silently explode.

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