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

I hated,

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.