The last shreds of her cocoon linger, drawing blood as it breaks, the pain as fresh as that first burst so many decades ago,
her wings are almost free,
but she keeps looking back at the safety of her casings:
yearning to be free, yearning to crawl back into the warmth of her former self
Split in two—two halves of one.
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.
I used to hold tight the story that my dad was an excellent cook when he got married, and my mom had no clue. Thus,
Like vultures to a corpse, these strings circle above: grabbing at a limb, a string of hair, a piece of clothing. Long, curvy claws strike:
A summer thunderstorm drenched everyone on the street. A Johnny Cash song strummed from the tiny unseen speakers. A barely-there draft of wind greeted us
About a month ago, I was processing my decision to take this year off with a fellow teacher friend and I said, “I love my