Isha Gupta

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The beach-kids are not alright

because there wasn't anything else left
to do, we hiked up our pants and
went a little further down the beach,
further down the beach there are
people who are not scared of anything
but we were not one of them, we hid
behind each other and exchanged our
towels for curtains and we went
down the beach but we buried ourselves
in sand, sad little group of people
made alien only because of the same
technicalities which made people down
the beach fearless, gave them weapons
we refused to wield, exchanged conscience
for ruthlessness, when we look at them
we see mouths but no eyes, hands but no
arms, ribs pointed outwards by the force
of an amateur escape artist, we took one
look at them and undid the hem of our pants,
empty shells make for a good knife but a
terrible arrow, we learnt everything too fast
but not soon enough and the reality of that
terrified us, made us bury our faces headfirst
into the sand like an ostrich but gave us none
of its ferocity, none of its kill, all of its instinct,
we pulled our pants low enough to cover our
grey, cover our blue, cover all of our skin,
if we couldn't see us maybe they wouldn't
see us and maybe then we'd be safe,
on the tip of our toes but safe, burning
in the hot part of the beach but safe,
far from the water and further from our
dignity but safe, safe, safe enough to
know why we might never risk sand again.




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