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Dead Stars, by Adelie Mone
Winter's icy hand at the back of all of us, black bark and slick yellow leaves. I am a hearth of spiders these days, a nest of trying. We point out Orion as we take out the trash but mostly we're forgetting we're dead stars too. What would happen if we decided to survive more, to love harder? If we used our bodies to bargain for the safety of others, for Earth?