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.
It was almost Halloween and the whole school was glowing, lit with the bright orange light. you blasted through my door like dynamite through a
The sharp eruption thunders next to me, I am deaf, but for the ringing in my ears it whispers: say something, speak up, stand up
for wearing ties and high-heeled boots for Speaking up for speaking the truth I burp, I curse, I’m hard as asphalt I’m tired of your