The Waves, et al

The Waves

When she was a girl,
she’d sit on the beach,
wind caressing her face,
drawing patterns in the sand.
Her mind wandered far
to pink and purple stars,
to infinity and back,
to a rainbow webs of dreams.

When she was a girl,
she thought she was the world,
impossible to stop her,
running forever.
She carried the joys
of the world in her hands,
picking through them
’till she’d finished them all.

When she was a girl,
her hands were small and ready
to take on the whole world,
and all she needed was love.
Her laughter, a remedy
to mend a broken soul
a laughing, lilting song
blooming from her heart.

Now she is grown up,
she’s forced down her smile
hidden her glowing hopes
and locked up her heart.
She watches them from afar,
sand gritting between her toes,
and sees the waves reaching in,
frothing, destroying her dreams.

The Ribbons

A dark and dusty room,
lights up.
Electricity flickers through the walls, across the floor,
into the girl.
Her bag drops to the floor,
revealing two pink shoes,
and she picks them up by the ribbons.
She sees herself, a double of her image, in the
cracked mirror.
And she breathes in.
The room shudders,
her shoulders slump and her arms collapse.
Her hands feel the ribbons—
And she laces them up,
over and under,
one knot,
a looping butterfly.
She tucks her legs underneath her, and
pulls herself up.
Her ribbons are tight around her calves now.
A blink,
a tremble of electricity,
a static hum
and she dances into the night.

The Cracks

Sometimes, she looks in the mirror.

Sees a shadowed soul,
by someone else’s radiance.
Fading into their footsteps
in shades of gray.
Everything about her screams


Not extraordinary.

Not even unique.

Sees a broken image
of a girl who’s dreams has been shattered
smashed into pieces by someone else’s
Clattered to the ground,
rattling like splintered bones.
And at every touch,
whenever she tries to soothe them,
they pierce her soul,
until it is beyond repair.

Sees a hollow girl.
A girl who has had her insides
scooped out
Eyes stare blankly ahead,
not searching,
not looking,
not seeing,
for there is no light
Her hands tired of reaching out for something
Too destroyed to mend, to search for the pieces,
and too defeated to be restored.

Angie Cui
Age 13, Grade 8
The Dalton Schol
Gold Key

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