Originally published in Hecate Magazine.
the last time i was here i would’ve staked my life on
you, sack of bones begging desperately to get free, bleeding
teeth sunk into the bit & last time i was here you
thought hell was just like this house, bigger on
the inside; last time i was here we lived the
same night on repeat mosquitoes on my knee swelling
until they burst & last time i was here the
spanish moss told me secrets when my tea went
lukewarm--do you know how difficult it is to eliminate
all light from a room even if you black out board up
nail shut all the windows & i suddenly had a newfound respect
for those cicadas the ones that stay underground for
seventeen years; last time i was here you weren’t alive
not really you were blank-eyed & turning circles circles circles
in the cloudy river i wish i didn’t believe in ghosts because
you’re still three months younger than me but older than i’ll
ever be & i read somewhere that ghosts disrupt temporal
directionality make time nonlinear cut open every half-healed
scab but last time i was here you didn’t want to eat me alive
or at least you didn’t say it out loud & look, maybe it’d be better if
we thought of that house as a baptism instead of a mouth &
well. you’ve done your time, i guess. me, i’m just surprised
you lasted this long.
you, sack of bones begging desperately to get free, bleeding
teeth sunk into the bit & last time i was here you
thought hell was just like this house, bigger on
the inside; last time i was here we lived the
same night on repeat mosquitoes on my knee swelling
until they burst & last time i was here the
spanish moss told me secrets when my tea went
lukewarm--do you know how difficult it is to eliminate
all light from a room even if you black out board up
nail shut all the windows & i suddenly had a newfound respect
for those cicadas the ones that stay underground for
seventeen years; last time i was here you weren’t alive
not really you were blank-eyed & turning circles circles circles
in the cloudy river i wish i didn’t believe in ghosts because
you’re still three months younger than me but older than i’ll
ever be & i read somewhere that ghosts disrupt temporal
directionality make time nonlinear cut open every half-healed
scab but last time i was here you didn’t want to eat me alive
or at least you didn’t say it out loud & look, maybe it’d be better if
we thought of that house as a baptism instead of a mouth &
well. you’ve done your time, i guess. me, i’m just surprised
you lasted this long.
Leela Raj-Sankar is an Indian-American teenager from Arizona. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rejection Letters, Brave Voices Magazine, and CLOVES Literary, among others. In her spare time, she can usually be found watching bad television or taking long naps. Say hi to her on Twitter @sickgirlisms.
