by Sonia H., 14
Do you ever think about the softness of the sun’s light? When it brushes lightly over my brow and sweetly caresses my nose and cheeks, it beckons me home. So I sit on the grass, the dew seeping into my clothes, and let the sun bask my face. The stars, too, are welcoming, twinkling gently on my shadow, which rests on the rolling dunes of the desert.
You don’t see these things?
What is clouding your eyes?
What is the haze that you see through?
My eyes are clear—I see too much. My eyes and head pound, the depths of my mind reverberate against my skull. I can see—
I can see your city holding onto the illusion of its flourishing in its dim and dull light.
I can see your lifelessness—your desperate belief that you are among the living, while continuing to waste your days.
I can see what you are thinking, I can see the death in your eyes, masked by all the lies.
I can see your malicious glee in pretending to help a friend.
Your knife is buried under the layers of your deception, its handle gripped with your steady hand.
Your smile has a story to tell, but so do your empty eyes. Never have I seen such an emptiness, a gaze that darkens the very sun.
I will bury all the inhabitants of the city’s secrets deep inside me, until one day, they can finally spill out. And they emerge at night, when no one can hear them drip off me like tears.
Why is it that long nights bring forth secrets forever locked inside the mind and heart?
Is it that the pillow acts as a comforting shoulder to cry on, and in the shower, the warm, cascading water, a soft hand, reaching out to catch my tears?
The night lets out emotions, forever locked in the heart.
Secrets, forever trapped in the mind.
Tears, forever held back by closed eyes.
Cries, forever silenced by pursed lips.
The night … is a beckoning hand, inviting me to spill out the secrets which haunt me during the day.
Now, you have the door to my mind, but you will never find the key—that is forever lost in the chains of my cell.
And so I sit on the grass, the dew seeping into my clothes, and let the sun bask my face. But your cold and empty eyes still haunt my soul.
Brooklyn, New York
Bridge Ink 