By: Annika Bajaj


Weeping, I stretch my arms
through the crust of the Earth, past
the molten mantle, into
her iron heart, which I soften
with the heat of my tears.

Weeping, I grasp a bird by its feathers
and though I mean it no harm
it comes apart in my hands like
so many shards of glass.
My tears fall like glue and,
newly made, it flies away.

Weeping, I brush tendrils of my pain
on the lovers who sit
beneath me, and for a moment
I am healed by their love. But it passes
like all good things do, like
all things do. And again, I weep.

Weeping, I watch the Sun climb
to the zenith of the sky. His rays
brush my hands, and I bask
in their warmth. But soon
they burn my palms,
and once more, I weep.

Weeping, I see the light of the Moon
on the horizon, and I see her tear-streaked
face. It reminds me of my own.
She pulls herself around the earth
and into my being. My tears,
freshly shed, dry on my cheeks.

Annika Bajaj is 17 years old and lives in Lexington, MA. Besides writing, her hobbies include reading, baking, and cuddling with her dog, a mini labradoodle. She loves music and is a violinist and vocalist. She has also recently developed an interest in neuroscience that she intends to pursue in college and beyond.