lassi, aam panna Amrisha Sinha curled fists fuse themselves into the warmth of clipped grass, tension easing into loose soil. inhaling the empty wind of hell’s own kitchen fire, you welcome it in. it’s the wilting of lungs you crave now. a year ago, when cool artificial air saved you from twig-like fingers and chins, when the soft whistle of a laugh was the only air you wanted to breathe in. closed doors, dark curtains, reflective glass and khus injected lassis - a small incubator for your open mouths and his gentle sway. now you listen to the crackling of dried mint leaves above glasses of aam panna, hoping you could avenge your lost innocence, your past ignorance. while the sun illuminates your corpse, you wish you didn’t know what it meant to feel smothered while breathing virgin air.
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