Once I convinced myself that my bones were made of the moon, and it was the reason I was so intense. I had the lips of craters hugging my heart and I was my own gravity and no one could interfere with the obsessions I revolved around. My skeleton was luminescent, white gold and sterling silver, and there were pieces of the stars etched into the purple marrow of my bones.

Of course, I was young enough to believe I could be my own galaxy, but when you’ve curled your toes around as many cliffs’ edges as I have, you start to realize that your bones are made of tree branches and you are destined to stay rooted and keep growing. You realize your bones are made of stone and you can handle so much more than moon dust. Your bones are smooth and you can’t feel them as much as you wish you could, and you really have to take it on faith that you are connected to yourself. But I know, you know, that I’ve never been in orbit.

There are just some moments I look up into a black piece of space that reminds me I’ve been a part of the sky all along.

Melanie Beatrice is a Creative Writing major at Susquehanna University, in her third year of school. This is her first campus publication. She’s an aspiring novelist who also enjoys horseback riding, animals, nail polish, and horror movies.