THE HOUSE WITH TWENTY THREE ROOMS by AMRITA CHAKRABORTY

you are always
searching for yourself in every reflective
surface. now turn and face it. the absence of
what you haunted, late at night when you hoped
he slept like a petal, a cast off shade
moved from room to room. running your hand
over every door. you want to be a blessing but
you’ve gotten caught in all this dust. it encircles
you, you storm. dingos in your front yard, the garden
trampled like a seagull’s croak. yeah maybe that’s a
silly analogy. these days i’m full of them, i lay awake
crazed and joyful. but i never think about what i can’t have
don’t ever think about what you can’t have.
like why can’t he meet your expectations why
can’t the sleeping boy be a sleeping girl
and why can’t he close a fist without you flinching.
there’s a technique to denial, honey, you’ve only
gone ankle deep. still. if the moon can survive days each month
on only a sliver of the sun, so can you. so can
your heart, crimson and hot and reaching forth,
just another species of deep sea creature passing
in the dark. clutching its self-made light.
any other source
unnecessary.

Amrita Chakraborty is a Bangladeshi-American writer and student located in New York City. Her work has previously been published in The Rising Phoenix Review and The Olivetree Review, and she has self-published a chapbook entitled Incarnate. She is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature, and her interests include music, social justice, and stargazing.

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