my nails dig into the earth, fists full of brown soil grind into my skin,
on my knees, I scrape again and again, digging for a piece of me, a piece of you, a piece of peace
but all I hold is cold, wet, clay
all that I am is cold, wet, clay
all that you are is cold wet clay
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.
Red buds line thin long branches trees stand firm guarding baby purple flowers lime-green moss fly across the garden floor playful birds spread across the
thirty on paper in truth, it’s twenty it’s all I have yours, ours, mine 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th and then– twenty to eat, rest, talk–
Soloist flying high: pushpin collector Possibilities that tingle safe in a palm A window opportunity waiting. Climb Out! Freely fly far destination dreams dangle hanging
When I was twenty-three years, my boyfriend at the time broke up with me via text message. It said: “I don’t know if I can