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.
My friend, Walter, stood about five feet and eight inches tall. He had sparkly warm blue eyes, weathered pink skin, and an electric, infectious smile. His wild eyebrows were often furrowed reflecting his deep thought, worries, and sadness. I met Walter after he was discovered living deep in the wild Northern California mountains.
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
“Traditions bring people together,” declared a 7th grade student in my 5th period class. We were sitting in large squarish circle. Our first Socratic Seminar