Strange Eyes

Ganga Prakash

You know that feeling when your father tells you that you’re not his daughter? That knife in your eyes? Drawing tears of blood, making the river run red? That rock in your throat— From grit telling you that you can’t cry ‘cause you’re strong. The feet that move on their own, So you don’t freeze forever. So you don’t fall Onto dirt, Or between the cracks of the tiles in your home, Where your soul will forever be drenched with shame, From the water your four-year-old nephew just spilled.

It’s the same feeling. But instead of my mother’s husband, There are strange eyes that yell at me. There’s no knife in my eyes, It’s my own nails. The river is dry. There is nothing in my throat But I still can’t talk. I force my feet to move So I can keep up with the rest, So I’m not left behind So I don’t fall. There is no sand here. No familiar tiles. It’s just a black hole of sorrow, From which there is no escape. I am a foreigner.

Untitled | McKenna Doherty | pen, marker, & colored pencil on BFK & tissue paper

cowfrog | Zoey Nahmmacher-Baum | digital