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.
“March of 2014,” I told my Rheumatologist last Autumn at my 6 month check-in. “Okay, let’s get your blood work done today; I’m going to
5 pm, in the hair salon. A haggard face stares back, hair in tin foil, legs kicked up on a dirty, torn, burgundy ottoman. It’s