by Erika McLitus
When you’re young they tell you to reach for the stars. They make it sound like if you stand on your tiptoes you can brush the fabric of night with your fingertips, as if those cruel points of light were no more elusive than the box of sweets on the highest shelf. They scream at you, “Reach!” while smirking from the sidelines with dead eyes. Even as those around you turn to ash…still reaching…still reaching…even as others grasp their stars and ignite, still they push you higher…higher. I touched a star once, for a moment. They screamed in exultation below, but the light blinded me; the heat scorched my skin. So I let it slip through my fingers, and the crowd let me fall. They turned their backs and cursed my name. Now I wish that I had never reached at all.
