She sits atop her throne, spinning
A double-edged string of sharp remarks,
they flow in a train
Compartment after compartments of you are not good enough’s
and no one cares for you
and you’re lying to yourself, if you think you were important to them.
Slicing open ancient wounds that have barely healed
She sits atop her throne, never satiated, always hungry
feeding on my open wounds.
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.
Minced garlic, chopped rosemary, grated ginger swirl as the wooden spoon twirls around the lamb with the trio. It is Sunday. Lamb Stew’s on the
The sharp eruption thunders next to me, I am deaf, but for the ringing in my ears it whispers: say something, speak up, stand up