What you have is a loud in my face kind of life that can cut, slice my flesh open
I still walk, upright, one foot at a time, a trail of burgundy behind me—the only evidence of the hurt
It is easy to remain on this lower rung, while you tower above me, seemingly carrying all that you want and all that I should want
I still stand, upright, feet grounded, the dust on my hair the only evidence of inadequacy.
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.
Baby bulbous bubbles sprout to the surface spiraling to the top and bursting into fizz each eager bulb excitedly bouncing around; they spin together playing
I sit on the empty banks of the my island, edge of the cliffs, waves slamming into rock borders I’ve carved with my own blood
My first memory of scarves is of a dupatta that you wear around your neck over a salvar or chudidar. I loved wearing them and
Illustration by Jill Kimura the mOOn is a wOman by Abigail Hawk ancient greeks believed the mOOn’s dark places were core-deep seas,and they named themmarias. god