Emily Chamichyan is an Armenian-American writer and high school junior. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and has appeared in sage cigarettes magazine and The Stardust Review. When she’s not writing, you can find her reading or daydreaming. She loves burning candles, wearing rings, and visiting indie bookstores.

you’re an arrow
lodged between blades of my back,
blood-soaked feathers i use
to paint a mural of you,
claws against a white canvas,
the ringing in my ears, echoing
when we sit with our legs crossed on my bed,
cardboard soaked takeout box in our hands,
sticky residue dripping down our fingertips,
as we pick through the soggy vegetables with our forks,
and lay on the floor,
counting the bumps on my popcorn ceiling
until we’re both asleep,
or hum off-key as you snip uneven layers of my hair
and tell me to trace your freckles
with my fingertips as you count mine,
or run by the lake and skip stones,
surface level ripples i watch
as i teach you to waltz,
ankle deep in mud, roots clutching to our legs,
all tangled together
as you step on my feet,
muttering your sorries as i try to hide my laughter
and remind myself to tell you one day,
in the language of birds,
i love you