I don’t want to think about that boy
and that heady rush of fresh air after a day
spent locked in math class.
Afterward, he limped to a car spitting oil.
Afterward, I was busy forgetting:
the grunting, the mouth-numbing kisses, the limbs
dragging backward, the tables screeching apart.
There was a painting there – modern art
or a drizzle of black on an white canvas.
I said it reminded me of my brain seizing,
zeroing in on itself (I’m always the victim).
I think abuse does that to you, he said.
In between, there was a stillness, a softness
I couldn’t comprehend as I was jammed against
the doorknob, heart knocking into my ribs.
I don’t want to think about his hunger
(the hollow thuds and the whimpering).
I don’t want to think about him at all.
Rachana Hegde is a sixteen-year-old poet from India who collects words and other oddities. Her work is a study in chaos and blurred memories, and she is dissonant in the company of strangers. Her poetry is forthcoming in Alexandria Quarterly and Moonsick Magazine. You can find her reading, drowsy-eyed, or at http://ink-smudgedfingers.tumblr.com.