Shoot for the Stars

Written by Cailey Tin, one of our poetry writers, and edited by Shraddha, one of our editors!

Shoot for the stars, they say / but I can’t aim for their hearts / & have them return / the favor by convincing the galaxy / to collide with my wants / the way I view / myself cynically, is the following: I am a one-woman clown show / with a humor broken as bread / moldy assumptions of healing / processes folded open / & crumpled on the sidewalk / as crumbs & crust.

Who am I / one girl without a tragic backstory / after backstory / valuing art / timelessness / & practicality / the urgency doesn’t pair well / living the double life, because settling / for one, is settling for none / to ask my ceiling to jump / heighten / elongate / on New Year’s Day so when it grows taller, & I / more ambitious with it / oh, how climbing the ladder / will be another tragic turn / of events / of the plain girl who touched /the top.

Left with halfhearted bruises / they could be pressured harder / & felt the same / what is the fuss to leaving it lightly etched / skin to skin / to look more fine than it feels / & be healed with salt air / when no outward injury / will be enough to be on hospital / television / while everything inside / me is entirely average / I won’t intrude into the sky from its beauty sleep / & pull out a gun when I’m not trigger happy / explode a constellation / shatter a beam of light / I won’t, I won’t / scatter what was born before me / leave a hole no skin / can cling to / I’m not a scientist / I’m your ambitious otherwise normal being-happened-to girl.

The sky is where you stop, they say / & I balanced on a tightrope / clumsy dangling star / & a tall circus performer with a red nose / undeserving, said the onlookers / disbelieving empty praise / & boxes of popcorn / I’m not invited to eat with them / only to be the comedy show / their words criss-cross / spanning / from “congratulations, on shooting for the stars” / & “the sky’s the limit” / yet they hold each other’s hand / clinging to watch until the end / the part where I fail & fall / the ceiling shrinks / bruises look like night / still not television-worthy dark / still not aching enough.

The truth: as said, I am no scientist / but I can learn to be the best balancer / anyone has judged / cynically / once these feet reach the end of the tightrope / I can reach the ceiling without heels / waiting, waiting / for New Year’s Day / to take them off / for the double life / to align / to balance / & for the aching scarlet / seeping, through both ankles / to be a rare enough pain / broadcast affliction / I can watch myself on hospital / television / aiming a gun at the sky / feeling the redness that comes / with being a circus performer / a nobody in every episode / if this dream holds true (though it doesn’t matter), when the cameras will turn away / the bruises will bite down / I’ll grit my teeth / & feel myself grow taller.

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This piece was written by one of our poetry columnists, Cailey. Reach 'em at @cailey.tarriane on Instagram!

This piece was edited by one of our editors, Shraddha. Reach 'em at @shraddhagulati_ on Instagram!

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