By now,
the scab should have fallen off—
new skin revealed
—that is what they say, all of them
And I pick at every new scab that tries to form,
opening the wound back up each time it tries to disappear,
I want to feel the warm blood beneath.
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.
As a child, I rejoiced in making French braids and high buns out of its thick curls. I wrote my own stories within the impenetrable knots of marriage and motherhood, weaving through her silky strands that seemed to extend for miles. The comb that would agitate my own coiled hair would billow through hers, without the slightest effort.
Standing in front of my students, my heart beats with the rhythm of the classroom: clock ticking in strained rotation, papers rustling through thick binder
Yesterday, you picked up The Girlfriend of a Sex God I saw it unfold, smirked to myself, it hadn’t unfolded yet this year and took
Illustration by Deema Alawa Confession by Sonia Chintha Confession: there are times when I bash mothers (the holy grail of humans) because there are times