by Indira Fernando
I googled words to make me seem smarter,
so that this wouldn’t sound too bitter and,
angry so people couldn’t tell me to feel less or,
think more because the words tasted like too,
much salt or like something burned at the base,
of the pot. The scorch marks on my hands and,
forearms blister and get torn open while I dig,
graves for the living and the dead and the living,
dead. The wounds weep on my sheets and my,
work covering everything I touch in my grief.
You ask if I’ve spoken to my father and I shake,
my head saying “fathers are like that sometimes.”
Indira is a queer, immigrant, woman of colour who enjoys writing, reading and taking on more work than they can handle. Their previous work can be found in Dialect, Nightingale & Sparrow, and on her notes app.