I hold you and you
close to my heart
warm warmth
gooey love
against my chest
tiny faces,
racing heartbeats
button noses
similar to mine
You
should
remind
me
of
the
one
I don’t have.
Instead—
your faint snores vibrate,
awakening a newness I never could’ve dreamt up
with the one I won’t have
I hold you and you
close to my heart;
with us–you, you, and me
I am 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.
To Those Who Stole My Autonomy:
I stand a sturdy sixty inches; mostly fat,
a rumbling glacier
threatening civilization’s end.
a grown-ass brown woman
standing outside your pretty bougie house
of perfectly manicured lawns, stainless white fences.
Illustration by Allie Olivares Grandma’s Legs by Darlene Campos My grandmother used to proudly tell me we had the same legs: ample, muscular, and powerful.
I see you, fully design specific obstacles for you knowing fully, the path is never straight.
