‘Black’ by Aahna Jain



In the yellow light of the rehab,
She told me I could ask her for anything I wanted,
I ordered her to go fetch her dead husband
Which annoyed her less than I wanted her to be,
But I reminded myself I wanted lots of things,
One of which was her dead husband.,

She took me through the purple hallways for therapy
And all I could think about was that
The brown of her iris didn’t match the brown of her dress.
(Don’t judge me,it’s supposed to happen in books)

She said I could select my activity today,
And I was surprised that someone actually gave me choices.
My mental note:stop joking about her dead husband.

Writing had been my love before,
But it was too complex a task now.
Words seemed distant,calculated lines with calculated meanings,
I needed to be free and words weren’t going to give me that.

So I chose drawing instead,
Meaningless strokes and meaningless designs and meaningless meanings.
With little pink hands that held little pink syringe marks,
A box labeled ‘colours’ was opened.

I wanted to scream that colours were everywhere,forming our daydreams and crushing our hopes,
Not just in a stupid box.
Then reminded myself that I wanted a lot of things,
One of which was the lady’s dead husband.

But they only had broken crayons,
And holding one felt wrong
When you knew the other part was in there
Somewhere,waiting to be completed.

I couldn’t breathe suddenly,
For the box of crayons smelled of loss and separation,
Of pieces formed and never reunited.
I took it upon myself to make them whole again,
Spending the day taping them together,
The blue with the blue,the green with the green.

People thought I had undergone a breakup,
Or two maybe,for I understood the need to be together.
They didn’t know that it’s okay to lose people.
We’re designed that way,to love,to forget and to love again.

But when you break into pieces,
Like the crayons now safely tucked into the box,
You can’t stand up again on your own.
You have to have the other part.

Losing a part of yourself is not something that heals.
It is a gnawing ache inside of you to be you again,
And once you are broken,you can’t tape yourself.
The pieces are lost,sucked into bottomless holes,
Duct tape, out of stock and reach.

I dreamt of a shattered mirror that night.
When I bent down to pick its shards,
One of them got me in my foot
And crimson red-maroon blood oozed out.

I remember the long journey to the art room the next day,
The dreaded opening of the box,the searching of the crayons.
And sure enough I found it,a crimson red crayon taped with maroon.

‘Crumbling Castles’, ‘Testimony to My Paltriness’, and ‘ My Last Poem’ by Aahna Jain



As the wind carries with it sandcastles of hopes,
As crumbling walls finally give way,
As fires burning from aeons extinguish,
As years of life fade into oblivion,

The child in me gets terrified,
Of change brought too soon,
Of times forgotten and never reminisced,
Of losing the old in the thirst for new,
Of moving on before letting go.


I hate the stars.

They rave of their freedom.
Of the space that they claim
Of the endless expanse
That they call home.

They rave of my eternal enchainment.
Of my teeny tiny territory
Of the gravity that pulls me down
The reasons I can’t explore what’s beyond.

They rave of their immortality
Of the undying fire within them
Of the generations of mortals
That they have seen perish.

They rave of my fugacious soul
Of the minuscule time between my dawn and dusk
Of the truth that I’ll be forgotten
Lost in the shadows of history.

I hate them not because of what they symbolize,
I hate them because I’m jealous
Because they speak the truth
The truth that I’m too scared to say.


Before dusk:

I was too broken and too wrecked
To complete the list of things.
Things to do in your lifetime.
So much as glance at it.

Under the pitch black starless sky
I did what I do best.
My only activity for years.
I wrote.

But this time I wrote
Not about your perfection or absence or the fact that you smell like home though I never know where
you are.
A suprise-I didn’t write about my ex
Whose forgiveness I seeked,
Warmth I could never forget.

It was not a tale of hunger and greed,
How one leads to another,
Then eventually to destruction.
Didn’t concern the mountains or the sunset or the raindrop that touched my lips yesterday.

I swear I didn’t write about my dead grandma.
Wasn’t in regard to God,the hypothetical being who failed to bring me hope when I needed it the most.
‘What did you write about then?’
You must wonder.
Surely the feeling of despair as you slipped into the void,never to return?

I was never written about, captured of course,
In pixels and polaroids.
But they call it capturing for a reason,
For it binds your body in a 5”×7″ sheet.
Your soul caught between reality and illusion.
Writing?It liberates.

So under the yellow tinged sky ,
I wrote of myself.
Of the little miracle I was(read:had been).
Unknown to the world,never written about

I wrote my eulogy too,
Suprised there was so much to say.
You’ll call it selfish
To end my life with my thoughts.
Maybe selfish was all I ever needed.

With the sky decorated in hues of orange and purple,
And my pen automatically working its way on the paper,
I realized that you weren’t so perfect
and my ex not so chaste.

As sun rays pinched my eyes,
I knew the time.The exact one.
Their dawn.My dusk.

After dusk:

Aahna Jain is a 14 year old Indian girl whose hobbies include reading and writing. An introvert,she sesses over the ideas of freedom and her ephemerality.She seeks to immortalize herself through her words and leave a permanent mark on the world.