This Thing Called Pain by Praniti Gulyani (17, India)

it all begins in the crook 
of my elbow – this storm 
brews on, flaring, its chest 
pulsating with fallen stars
that seem to be on a silvery fire

the clouds are thick
their black threads heavy 
with sharp, glassy rain
that blooms on my cheeks
like unsuitable, wayward flowers 
that know not where to go

---

and then, the roaring begins 
somewhere in the deeper corner 
of this thing called the heart

the roaring, which is – 
an interwoven tapestry 
of shrieks and squeals 
where every shriek is a thread 
that has a color 
where every squeal also 
has a shade

and finally, this roaring 
clambers upon the mist-crusted platform 
of my eyelids
and morphs into this thing 
called a tear

and then, the heaving begins 
cold, black fists pummeling – 
the overwhelming flash of sharp silver 
and yet, the pushing and punching 
behind this thing 
called the chest

finally, the storm recedes 
leaving behind 
the scent of an unwanted freshness
and scars – broken, partially 

and some bruises 
that were tossed away 
by the raging winds 

thrown away 
just a little away 
from where 
they were told 
to be 

clambering through 
this thing 
called pain

​