Venus (planet of love) landed on my face last night. The only falling star within
these four walls, flimsy & decorated with 25-cent swirls. The last of her kind.
She’s held onto the ceiling for dear life since I was 6. As a kid I’d wake up with
glow-in-the-dark planets sprinkled on my bed, uncovered by the rustling of
With time, memories peeled off the walls, entire years that once burned with life
now fainter than a cloud of dust. Neptune was buried under photos of
homecoming dances, Pluto dim next to faces of friends I don’t speak to anymore.
The day Mercury’s clump of sticky tack finally gave way, I didn’t bother hanging
it back up. Nobody lives in that bedroom anymore, but the solar system kept
I used to worry one would fall out of orbit & I’d accidentally swallow it overnight. I googled Can you chew in your sleep? I didn’t know at what point the stickers would flicker out and go dark forever. My body would be celestial in its own way. I would be glowing from the inside out.
Em Townsend (they/she) is a queer nonbinary writer and student from the Washington D.C. area, currently attending Kenyon College in Gambier, Ohio. An English major, college radio nerd, and nature enthusiast, Em enjoys watching ’80s teen movies, reading, and looking at trees. Their work has previously appeared in Club Plum Literary Journal and HIKA magazine.