Breathe. I instruct. Turn the paparazzi flashes off.
Breathe. And listen, grab the handles tight.
Feel. Their rough edges inside your palm, painting callouses onto virgin skin.
Don’t. Let your body, mind be dragged behind you, ripping to shreds like stewed chicken.
Breathe. And see that tiny dim light–light years away, forty light years away. Channel all your fight towards that star.
Because blood sheds before new skin.
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
I roll past the same ramp opposite the entrance that was the first door that opened my life to this new world and grin at