unnamed By Neya Krishnan
The autumn sky is a deep black bruise and I drown in its ache. What a strange feeling— for someone who loves words, I can’t name this… this is what I know; it hurts to breathe, I tremble upon anyone’s touch, under anyone’s gaze, so I left for someplace lonely— now I walk towards an unnamed destination fingers frigid, socks soaked, back buried by a bloated backpack; I can go anywhere I want; and yet I can’t, not really. I close the umbrella and the salt on my face is gently washed off. I find a tree and press my unsalted cheeks to the drenched bark; I don’t stop even as passing couples stare. I don’t stop until the prickling sensation turns to pain. It seems I can’t tremble on my own,
DESIGN BY EMMA DAVIS, ART BY ISABELLE CHARLES
so I walk and walk with no thoughts (shouldn’t there be thoughts?) I walk and walk until a middle-aged man in a silver car eyes me through his greasy window and slows down his vehicle, pulling over to park, eyes still locked on my frame // I pace quickly and run and run until I reach the end of a street three blocks away. I’m not sure how to get back home and while that would usually terrify me, I seem to be much more terrified of the unnamed feeling // the feeling that brought me here to drown in autumn’s bruised night. What is it? what is it? what’s wrong? I don’t know.
NOVEMBER 22, 2021 TUFTS OBSERVER 23
