Breathe. I instruct. Turn the paparazzi flashes off.
Breathe. And listen, grab the handles tight.
Feel. Their rough edges inside your palm, painting callouses onto virgin skin.
Don’t. Let your body, mind be dragged behind you, ripping to shreds like stewed chicken.
Breathe. And see that tiny dim light–light years away, forty light years away. Channel all your fight towards that star.
Because blood sheds before new skin.
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.
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:
I dig and dig and dig sweat dribbles down my forehead, shoulders heavy, mind focused I dig and dig and dig arms ache for me
The blame—it stacks high, an unyielding tower of sharp pieces of stone. You assemble and build and construct… So focused on this up surd structure