Love and lies go well together
Selling their huge ideas to each other, waistbands, and lessons
Slathered on top like marmalade,
In lieu of envisaging condensed ideas
I discovered the art of discovering mistakes that deserved to be buried
And forgotten until someone from the future comes looking for them
I thought I had marked places to hide,
Marking unfairness, even visiting dusty cemeteries to stop me from bending over
And giving up.
I worked hard just not to give up,
Like letting go was an antidepressant that I was not allowed.
I held hands with my failed potential every day
Counting the minutes until my hidden charisma would finally be revealed
Before everyone, hands producing gallons of sweat and steam
Cold evenings misspelling my dreams of confident victories
Tumultuous cheers aimed at me,
Only at me
I am still counting,
Sixty thousand and sixty-five, almost believing that dreams don’t come true
In my story, there are bad characters floating around,
Slithering on the floor as if shards of a wine glass that have no idea
Where to travel to,
Except for the trash can outside
Hopelessness identified me as a bad character in my own story
Suggesting allusive-heavy elements for my gradual descent;
I write poetry where outright plagiarism of inhuman emotions is allowed
There are lost opportunities recreating themselves, but
Chances are only made for humans who don’t have anything to lose
The heartburn that bores into me, on the sight of approaching failure
Looking for bridges to burn, and bare skin to drown
Losing final games, like I kept offering salt to the ocean
That refused to accept.
Arya Mohapatra is a student of Loyola School. She studies in grade eight and lives in Bhubaneswar, India.