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.
all the pieces they add up—to desires, deep yearnings of belongings that are not mine to have they hover, slap me with icy fingers, each
A break in a routine and I am jostled like the snow in a snow globe, tiny particles scatter apart, it’s
brick by brick it builds on its own each year completely independent of me and my life oblivious, I carry on working, grading, planning, teaching,