my arms outstretched,
the wind whipping through my hair,
i’m spinning,
round and round and round.

the world blurs into a kaleidoscope of colours,
abstracted to its simplest form.
the voices melt away,
disappearing into the burning sun,
till it’s just the ground beneath my feet
and the sultry, summer heat.

i’m screaming out a million thoughts,
otherwise eclipsed by my sensibilities.
the sweeping wind claws them out,
and i unleash an unprecedented soliloquy.


my arms arched,
like the scrutinising tips of Madame’s brows.
i’m spinning,
round and round and round.

pirouette after pirouette, her gaze grows sharper.
her calloused hands circle my waist,
tousling the tulle, tightening the tape,
tighter and tighter, against my shape.

tighter & tighter, till i can’t breathe.
“29 inches”, she proclaims as she seethes.
i want to melt into the ground beneath my feet,
i want my friend, this earth, to swallow all of me.

the hushed whispers in my mind:
“too many carbs”,
“cover up, hide your scars”,
crescendo into a thundering downpour of hurling daggers,
“29 inches”, her voice roars.


i dig my nails, burrow them into my skin, the blade glints.
i release my anguish into a single sigh,
rivulets of melted rubies
seep down the mountainous slopes of my thigh.

the voices fall silent,
an odd kind of catharsis.
i’ve found the quiet after the storm.
but i’ve sold a part of me,
for this fleeting sense of calm.

beat, drip,
my heart thumps, a gem falls.
beat, drip,
it’s quiet as dawn.
beat, drip,
i’m grounded, the earth calls.
beat, drip,
the voices crest,
the wave engulfs.

i’m spinning again,
round and round and round.
the sweeping winds claw at my throat,
i unleash an unprecedented soliloquy.

Trisha Karmakar is an aspiring young writer from Mumbai, India. When she isn’t reading or writing, you might find her dancing or at the piano.

Featured image: Ahmad Odeh/Unsplash