A housewife’s plea

Don’t you know what this awful, heartrending, heavy feeling is called?Empty, I am empty. A black hole seems almost limited to the expanse of my misery. Ambiguity and mystique seems almost the same to me; I, who am discarded in the drift of time, barely holding on, I rock and pray to a God who […]

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in my presence

he was tall before many but fell short in my presence. A disaster with no quandary, no cursory decelerations by dawn’s promiscuous hues, crested as the serpentine trails of tears, shed like skin– flakey and delicate as moths, as ash fell like rain drops as I tipped my head back and laughed.

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