#094

you leave in your wake scentlessness.
the static zaps, and suddenly under
my skin, i am haemorrhaging. blackbird-

no, the rain didn’t come. and i didn’t
have a word. or an apology. chalk-
mouthed, i folded in the hurt. feigned
sleep. and the pickled April heat
sung to me all night. and all night i swore to
hate you and hated myself. nothing

stung. everything was a black hole.

©Mohana Das

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