By Roshni Riar
i weave threads of saffron
through the lacerations
that split themselves
open upon your departure,
sewing myself back together
with yellow stained fingers.
if there is a direct translation
for fatherless in our mother
tongue, i was never made aware. my needle, a sliver of cinnamon bark, clumsily pushes through
my skin in a desperate act
of reunification.
threats do not slice cleanly
like a knife, no. they tear
haphazard wounds into
my very toughest parts.
i rub a salve of sugar and water
along the puckered, barely
mended bridge of stitches
to speed up this process. i wait.
a cold compress of black tea
bags should bring down
the swelling. the harder
i press, the more i forget
your accent carrying my name.
i wait for an infection
that never comes, instead slowly healing around the loss of you.
with my first hesitant sip
of moving on, the yearning
in my chest begins to dissipate.
droplets trickle down my chest,
settle into that place beneath my heart that does not love but accepts.
i keep swallowing, my fiery throat
bobbing unevenly, until the nausea passes.
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