Strange Eyes Ganga Prakash
You know that feeling when your father tells you that you’re not his daughter? That knife in your eyes? Drawing tears of blood, making the river run red? That rock in your throat— From grit telling you that you can’t cry ‘cause you’re strong. The feet that move on their own, So you don’t freeze forever. So you don’t fall Onto dirt, Or between the cracks of the tiles in your home, Where your soul will forever be drenched with shame, From the water your four-year-old nephew just spilled.
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