the wordless stories i'm terrified of
If music were to make us:
rapid rests for the space between heartbeats,
80’s bass lines for the beat itself;
the fluent, buttery bellow of the prodigy’s violin
for the blood in someone’s veins,
then would my melody be sweet:
ethereal symphony of the forest’s instruments,
midnight and dripping moon;
or would I be a noise more terrible than silence:
mother losing her child,
father losing control.
If taste were to stitch our muscles and limbs together,
dew-covered orchards of apple,
coating her skin, since
she’s prided herself in being
adamant and sugary;
and caramel in his bones,
because of the weaknesses
he’s stuffed so far beneath,
it’s now in every cell of his body.
is my coffee-stained skin
littered with red crosses,
or am i simply waiting for the day,
when someone valid places their
candy lips beside my ear,
and tells me, in smooth, frosting words,
that i am accepted?
If smell were to tell our stories:
born to a shredded family
because of that pungent incense scent
clinging to the fabric of his shirt
from the times he’s prayed to god
until salted tear-tracks
are plotted oddly on his cheeks.
How about that lovely perfume her skin has grown fond of,
so the world grows green at the thought of
her luxurious, plush-pillows-and-beds-of-petal life,
but she grows sickened
by its constant wrenching into her face.
The scent goes so deep,
her throat feels raw.
My smell would be the rich wine scent of my mother’s words,
and the cool sea breeze scent of my father’s absence.
If touch were to illustrate our emotions:
upon his hearts a blanket of thorns,
when the door between his room and hers closes;
then silently unfolding on his skin, molten lava,
when the door is weaker than her sobs;
at his fingertips, this enchanting fire,
when he feels his thoughts,
catapulting from every strand of his hair,
breaking the walls.
I don’t know what I’ll feel like.
Perhaps the velvet texture of darkness,
there but not quite.
Yet when my eyes have shut,
and all the millions of universes
split open before me,
and I’m dreaming of what I’ll dream of,
dreaming of my scent and taste and melody,
I’m scared of the frown,
that has started to slumber upon my cracked lips,
Mythili Veshalais an eighth grader at Greenwood High International School, Bangalore, India. She’ll never stop obsessing over anime, P.F. Chang’s desserts, and Coldplay when she’s not reading Cassandra Clare or writing.