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.
When I was a little girl, I longed for luscious flowing long hair that danced in the wind and cascaded down my back because I
The raucous laughter slips into the hallway, vibrates, echoes, pulsates out onto the road. It is our last hour together: this specific combination of personalities.
I remember the large cabin and numerous empty seats on the PanAm flight from Frankfort to Dulles. I remember the runny, moist flesh of a
I wear my fingers out into the coldBare, pleading winter air to cool the stabs of heatTo calm the thin acid between my finger bones