Silent Sky & Silent Sea

By Tejal Doshi

See. Once, I went clawing for the sky—roped 
and yanked it apart, gilded myself in sapphires 
and pearls that gleamed with blood. 

People peered from below, in boats scabbed with rust,
rolled oysters in their mouths. Said, Oh, how 
you hurt yourself, just don’t scar yourself, love. 

Pleaded, float down here, love. 
I picked a tinkling laugh from my teeth, 
and sent it down to lap up the ocean’s waves. 

I spooned the sun, I swallowed it up, 
and while people shook their heads, 
I awoke from my slumber, from dust. 

In reality, I plonked deep into the water— 
a brush of salty warm lips, murmuring. 
See, perhaps my delusion was such: 

That my feet would skim the sea even when I cradled the clouds.
That I could hum, hug, feel, and kiss myself asleep,
tangled in seaweed, mermaid hair, sea rock dust. 

I never cradled the clouds like they said I did. 
I only flailed with them, gasping, blinking. 
I extended my arms, craved jagged scars, and sunk into 

The ocean. It whispered 
underwater silence against 
my collarbone. 

And the sun, that once was 
a medal glinting golden: 
just a yellow blur.

Tejal Doshi is a high school student from India whose poetry and fiction appear in Blue Marble Review, Sandpiper Magazine, The WEIGHT Journal, Cathartic Youth Lit, The Start Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. Besides writing, she has an interest in commerce, math, psychology, and mental health advocacy. Find out more about her at https://tejaldoshi.carrd.co/.