Lost to the Ghosts

BY SUHANEE MITRAGOTRI

lost to the ghosts
she longs for cranes to carry her to the land
of her mother where golden soil fills
abandoned stomachs like wild rice and
where stars litter the bruised skies. God
watches the way she digs up silver in her
backyard and shovels it into her mouth
lips pressed together tentatively. she lets
the metal burn in her esophagus before
reaching for more. she tries to pull out
the hands that clog her throat but her nails
taste like melting molasses and it feels too
good. quavering premonitions breathe into
her body at night like baby teeth carving
tattoos into her chest. coconut milk
slips out from her breasts faster than
honey and she presses her fingers at her
chest to hush her nipples but they do not
realize that her child never sipped at
her bosom but rather consumed her tears
in heaven. sliced lips tremble cascading
blood onto tile like water into lava releasing
smoke that shivers upon the pastel sky.
her voice tremors at the sight of
those who tumble from the womb. she runs
until her feet slide out from under her.
sputtering kerosene she drips campfire
songs. she holds her head above
the wooden table because they only want
to see her chin. eyes gaze down
on her spitting at the broken flesh that
peels along her hairline. her nose
cracks like asphalt and her tears dissolve
before touching the ground. she leaves no
whispers. her body and child
remain white like ghosts.

musty dreams

you live in a dusty room, cobwebs licking the crevices of the walls
and lost hair lining the leather couch. dim light shatters the contour

of your face and bleaches your eyes with red water. her dusty blue
sweatshirt is stuffed & muffled in your white drawer but you still

can occasionally hear a shrill voice mumbling about crushed red
lollipops and vegan pie. you have a photograph of her, outlined by

an aged metal frame bleeding rust and peeled acrylic. in the faded
picture, she holds a tight grin lightly shaded across her pale face.

the door to your closet has been shut for days and you have chosen
to use it as a display case for ratty posters of wasted pop stars and

80s rock-and-roll, especially the ones she hated. broken beer bottles
border the tattered polyester rug, each sliver of glass slicing into

the floorboard and carving bloody tattoos in your heels. the sky quivers
and weeps at dusk, after a day of deafening migraines, tears cascading

down upon the asphalt three stories below, windows clattering as they
tremble in the numbing gusts and yellow rain. as you move towards

the shutters, you spot a middle-aged man in the apartment across from
you drinking bubbling champagne from the bottle with his girl. and you

keep staring as you keep consuming bitter ginger ale. your tongue burns
at the sight and your teeth dissolve along the back of your throat, making

you gag. you walk back towards your bed and slide under the sheets. you
feel like you are suffocating as you breathe in tepid carbon dioxide.

but you let the sheets collapse on top of you.

take ‘em

i. scatter my seeds and sow my lips
ii. watch new stories cascade from my womb
iii. plastic my stories to tell ‘em later
iv. feed ‘em the compost i’ve collected in my blood
v. skeleton their gardens
vi. temple their breaths and graph their heartbeat
vii. filter their spit into hydrangeas and cabbage
viii. like silver miners search their throats for gold
ix. pull out their moldy roots
x. shove my body under their tongue
xi. watch ‘em wither while they hemorrhage my colors

toxicity

the crow sips on kerosene/while her cries echo across your

panes / let her in/i say/but you choose to watch/ sweat
lines her upper lip/ chipped fingernails collect
in her palms/ you use teapot shards to pencil a photograph
of her/ old flesh consumes the melting ink/like beer
on a young tongue/blood chews its way out of your skin//
the black bird cracks open your skeleton/ pulling out
your lungs/to decorate with faded rubies/she burns
away your esophagus /and sprinkles the ashes into her
coffee/ blue skies rain purple today/ crippled sun/
handicapped clouds/tell me the story/the one about
the earth/trembling along her orbit/slit in the side/
painfully grasping at the cartilage that dangled from
her ribs/she peeled tattoos/as easily as she carved
them/she sipped mercury before bed/ and quaffed
bottles of cobalt in the morning/ she wanted you so
hard/ and you didn’t even reply.

About the Author

Suhanee Mitragotri is a 17-year-old from Massachusetts. She loves to write, dance, and spend time with her dog and cat.