Everyone is a monster: the difference between me and you
is how much our hands can close around. And whether we can
stop ourselves. I think I must have been born grasping
at air; wanting fills me up like nothing else does. Lately
I've found myself searching for vibrance - mostly all I find is
leftovers, but I don't mind. Desire tastes better when it's been
left out for a while, red and rotten. I'm a teenage girl gone
wrong, pink in the face and in the head. Anger is a weight
best stored in the nails - come for a sleepover and we'll paint
each other's. But I go too far. I always go too far. I can't help
myself - my nails were made for scratching instead. Just tell me
you'll still look me in the eyes after. Is this the general you or the specific
you? You tell me. Will you go or will you stay? Tears are
transparent. Blood isn't. And I've always preferred substance. Girls don't
love each other the way we do, and nails don't grow back sharp
the way ours do. This is all to say I don't want you to leave. This is all to say
I want to be wanted but I want to want more.
Image Credit: © FineArtAmerica
MEET THE POET:
BRISHTI CHAKRABORTY (she/her) is a chronically ill teenage lesbian living in India. Her work explores the intersections between being brown and being a lesbian. Her work appears in Fahmidan Journal, FEED Magazine, Fairy Piece Mag, and elsewhere. Find her @brishti_writes on Twitter and @brishtiiii on Instagram
