There is an open faucet

under my bed, glazed over my body

I am leaking into the people around me-

I have never been this honest.


In my head, my arms are outstretched

draped across a bathtub, two toes sticking out

like odd deformities. There is nothing aesthetic about it.

The marble I rest my back against

I am leaking into it.

The pores perforating my skin

rub against the cold, hard white

my sweat is percolating into my words

I am dispelling into stories.

Shiny, slutty, sleek

my naked body ripped ripples in the soapy water

foam inside my skeleton

rubber ducks around my eyes

I am a joke

someone shut the goddamned pipe.


A towel for a quick dry,

a blow dry for my hair

singes around my nails

they scraped the back of my throat

and now- my bloodied insides littered outside.

My friends shelter form the nudity.

I have never had friends who could see me as my mother made me.

The cuts along my upper arm, sears

my fingers like to pinch my skin

someone stop me.

Photo Credit: Novafly Flickr via Compfight cc

Paakhi Bhatnagar

Paakhi Bhatnagar is a student from India and an avid reader of historical fiction. She is a passionate feminist and blogs about current politics and feminist issues. She also possess the uncanny ability of turning everything into a debate.


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