Wispy strands of air whip my body, a gentle massage only a winter’s morn can provide; I tilt my chin up into the brilliant blue yellow above.
Lungs: balloon out and release you, it, then.
Simmering in my solitude, I glide towards the woods; branches graze my hair, dubbing me with courage.
Skin: crisp against the wind.
I. Am. On. My. Own.
No desire to bust into your room to vent, cry, dance, let go. I don’t need it no more.
I am me; the me who stands tall like that oak in front of me.
On my own.
Sonia Chintha is an Indian American writer who lives in the Washington DC area. She blogs, writes poetry, and fiction. She is also an English teacher who believes that our experiences teach us more than any test. She is the founder and co-editor of Good Little Girls.
Saturday, October 27th, I stood on the sweet serene sand wondering which direction the storm had gone. I shut my eyes, inhaled and listened to
It’s easy to look back and make my life seem so worth it. At the same time it’s just as easy to claim all of
I sit on the empty banks of the my island, edge of the cliffs, waves slamming into rock borders I’ve carved with my own blood