I keep you close in my heart like
My tongue is wet with
praise for you.
You carry whole
under your breastbone. I know
sometimes the smog stifles your breath.
The cold of late December settles
into your bones. You sit on the edge of the
hospital bed, you
are a vessel docking from the great
war. You are pierced with spears. I know
sometimes you forget they are there.
You lie down on the bed.
wounds on your skin tally how
many battles you have survived–––
entire continents you have conquered
stretch across your legs,
borders from the top of your
head to the bottoms of your feet. I know
sometimes you do not realise how much
of the world you have mapped.
I step into the room with tea from
the cafeteria. until I
softly call your name.
Hia Chakraborty is a writer/filmmaker born in London and based in New York City/Cambidge, MA. She focuses most of her work on teen/young adult mental illness/substance abuse. Her first debut publication is the young adult novel Aurora’s Ashes, written when she was eighteen and published at nineteen. She currently attends Harvard University, and is studying English with a concentration in Creative Writing, as well as Film.