by Emily Chamichyan
The sun has taken the form of a girl,
one with golden rays down her back
curving and bending into figures
of delight,
of madness
that smells like salted caramel
and freshly popped popcorn
with skin glowing and sunburnt,
sprinkles of sand freckled across her face.
Her lips taste like lollipops,
the ones you can get for a few cents
at the drugstore or the markets
with their sickly cherry taste,
their cotton candy scent too strong,
too many blueberries
and artificial strawberries,
too much sound
too little background,
she has seemingly forgotten
her ache for the blue,
the rich indigo fountains
overpowered by the red rubies.
The girl has heard her calling,
as she tries to quench her thirst,
glowing the color of candlelight,
finding her chariot in the sky
her place amongst the winds
surrounded by bluebells,
surrounded by her kin.
Emily Chamichyan is a writer and high school sophomore. When she’s not writing, you can find her reading or daydreaming. She loves burning candles and visiting indie bookstores.
