By: Shreya Athalye, 2027
After torrential rains,
My scent spoke in petrichor,
And as the memories clung to my skin,
I wore this metaphor
of being soaked,
Through my bones
went the blows,
And out of me spilled the blood.
And I tried to keep my expression neutral,
As any good girl would.
And if this violence ever helped me,
I don’t really remember.
But I can’t deny that I’m mesmerized by the colors.
I had a dream once,
Where I collected vital organs.
Watching a heart pulsing might explain why I still live.
But at the cost of becoming an expert in all that is morbid?
I dream of surgery, so sterile and vibrant.
The adrenaline rush to outrun a flatline,
Trying to avoid the paperwork of being coded.
But oh, dreams cannot be disinfected.
So I bathe in these images,
That I cannot stomach with my eyes open.
After torrential rains
Blood becomes the mist of petrichor.
I would be lying if I said I’ve never been here before.