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.
Strolling through old stomping grounds, I hold hands with the twenty-nine year old me, now thirty-nine. She had just said yes to marriage; she had
Illustration by Deema Alawa Jaya Shoma Khallee* by Parivash Fahim Goff I give in to the sun baked sand, sink down against the smooth log
To Those Who Stole My Autonomy:
I stand a sturdy sixty inches; mostly fat,
a rumbling glacier
threatening civilization’s end.
a grown-ass brown woman
standing outside your pretty bougie house
of perfectly manicured lawns, stainless white fences.
It is my belief that those who invented brunch, like me, did it as an excuse to eat more. Last year on a lazy Sunday,