She sits atop her throne, spinning
A double-edged string of sharp remarks,
they flow in a train
Compartment after compartments of you are not good enough’s
and no one cares for you
and you’re lying to yourself, if you think you were important to them.
Slicing open ancient wounds that have barely healed
She sits atop her throne, never satiated, always hungry
feeding on my open wounds.
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.
This weekend I get to go to New York City to help celebrate a friend’s thirtieth birthday. (I, too, went to NY and Long Island
A soft coastal breeze sweeps open the back of my eyelet crop top and I lean into the table fluttering my eyes. Behind me, Miami’s city
So many times I sank rocks in my pockets, heavy Now, I walk forward palms heavy with rocks one foot in front of another Steady