Sanjana Raghavan

NOW WHO DO I PLAY MARIO KART WITH

tw: domestic violence/abuse, anxiety

 

My skin drinks lotion so

lustily it scares me

guess i had mistaken

familiarity for

predictability,

sharing the same space for

ownership

if not ownership then at least

friendship, this thing

which is mine and

Not mine,

after all

HOW ARE YOU THESE DAYS / I’M DROWNING

Writing as

Savior

my teacher says

Will writing hold me

at night

while my body shakes

and rattles my twin xl

mattress against the railing

Grimy hush

of martyred white noise

from the air purifier

which is supposed to

help me breathe

Me whose default is holding my breath

and must consciously command my chest:

"Breathe!"

The body refuses to play along

Something we have in common

We each refuse to claim the other as

our own

How are you these days?

I'm still drowning

I'm still visiting my parents

My sibling is leaving first

Is it wrong to wish I was the one

grabbing Kentucky Kansas Colorado

like wooden blocks and Legos

flinging them on the floor

sharp side up

When I was little

I wasn't allowed to lock my bedroom door

I locked it anyways

My parents would bust down the door

with an Allen key

The yelling was worse after but

since I would get yelled at anyways

I locked the door

And the

one

two

three

seconds it took them to unlock the door

were all I needed

A body which must move in seconds

is not a body

prone to breathing

Photo of a smiling Sanjana Raghavan, facing the lens. Sanjana has brown skin, a brown leather jacket, black shirt, black glasses, and dark brown or black hair that comes down to her chest.

Sanjana Raghavan is a queer Indian American writer who lives in Fairfax, VA. She holds a BA in English from George Mason University. Her work appears in Fiction Southeast, Lunch Ticket, New Flash Fiction Review, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @brownbookboi or check out her WEBSITE