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.
What you don’t see is that one inch needle I inject into the skin of my belly every Saturday: the counting to three, the self-talks
She sees the curves of her body from top to bottom. Some are pleasing, some annoying. Images of beauty scroll past her mirror, they reflect
I used to believe that luxury meant jaunting off to the Mediterranean for a month or sailing around the world for a year–something dramatic and