cobblestone beaches by Neha Varadharajan (14, India)

the ocean tickled my feet and i tried to laugh. but i couldn’t. 

the city did not welcome me anymore. i sold my heart as bait to the fisherman who haunts the outskirts of the dark, dense place, and i cannot hold my feelings within my feet anymore. ​

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he said i had an overactive imagination, a dense green forest i hoped to find the most precious gem within. he gave me a diamond to keep and once he was out of sight, i drove my weary legs to the river with no bank, and slipped the gem into the cool, black water as the stars occupied the sky to watch my beauty slip away. 

i walked along the beaches, sitting on the occasional rickety wooden bench, looking at little girls with two braids and four ponytails drawing photographs of me and the sea. they didn’t smile back. the cobblestones hurt my bare feet, as i remembered, i signed up for romance. 

the sand washed away the water that clung on to it with a flick of its airy sidekick. those things which seemed gorgeously moral bended to prudential covering now. the things that seemed to be funny once didn’t seem funny now. 

i refrained from going to the fisherman that cotton evening. instead, i threw my arms out to welcome my city, and put within me a new, hard heart. 
​
the ocean tickled my feet and i tried to laugh. and i could.