Mended

Celina Bagchi '24

“No, I thought—”

“Again and again and again—”

“Still you try—”

You never seem to finish

     your sentences.

You kiss my worn fingertips and

     sleep-deprived eyelids and

     hope that it will be enough.

You swallow a fistful of pills to

     match the whites of swollen tired eyes, begging

     for release, for peace, for your thoughts to cease.

You look out of the window and I see you wonder

     if the people, mere specks on the ground below

     see you at all.

You leave footprints in

     freshly fallen snow and

     muddy trekked paths.

You wade into the depths of the ocean

     waiting, it seems

     for the water to swallow you whole.

You pray with your hands folded

     together, porcelain breakable fingers pressed

     flat against open air, facing a statue as fragile as the faith

     you claim to have in it.

You stand in the storm, the clear

     blue sky behind you and

     a vortex of emotions engulfing you.

You smile, finally, and the world stops—

     stares,

     Like the sun peeking out

     from behind the cover of cumulus clouds.

And when your bones have mended, you

     turn to the God you promised your life, to the

     love you have forsaken, to the

     people you tried to leave behind and you

     finally finish the sentence

     you were trying to say.

“Still you try, even when you have

failed again and again and again, and your

eyes are red from the world’s cruelty, you

choose to see the beauty in canvases made of pale skin, in

hair that gleams when sunlight falls through a window pane, in

passing your eyes and earthly, fallible, temporal love

on to beings who will never understand

your tragedy.”