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.
Recently a friend of mine explained her daughter who is a toddler’s aversion to new clothes. She said that at first when attempting to slide
On my way to work, over tired, annoyed that it had snowed over night, I turned on the radio for refugee. Instead of music, a
I grasp the color between my thumb and index finger, light and flexible Glide the pastel against paper like it’s a skate on ice, smooth and
A tight spindle on sharp threads wind through every corner of her mind, slicing open ancient wounds–a perpetual pain machine unrelenting. Most would want it