The Night is My Witness by Sneha Sadhukhan (16, India)

Every inch of me wants to twist 
out of the hold these pretty walls have.
They appear like a dainty prison cell
made to lock in all the ineffable thoughts
that now threaten to spill out of my pores.

---

I usually prefer to braid 
my ink-stained fingers 
into a delicate crown atop my temple,
adorned with the stars I keep 
hidden in a jar under my bed, 
than step on the daisies growing 
in the cracks of the pavement. 
It is something about tear-stained notebooks
and zodiac signs 
and secret smiles 
that makes me feel, more than anything, my
ink streaked fingerprints are insignificant. 

The walls press further in 
and the upturned bottle of dark blue
stains my little leather book 
invariably, 
while my skin aches for pine scented candles
and lavender smells 
and illicit moonlit meadows. 
And my heart dances out of my chest
till it has bled itself out to the world.
And the night stands quiet witness
never a whisper heard.