body stories (part ii)

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under my feet

lies a crushed cockroach cadaver whose icky crunchiness I still smell when I think of my the space under my left heel

and under my feet lie dreams (that I make sure stay there by clenching my toes hard and closing off any space between them) of holding the heavens for the daughter I will never be able to nurture

and under here I see early morning floors still dusty weeeh I loved to sweep those with my five year old feet so later I could look fascinatingly at the black dissolve from under me on the white tiles of the bathroom

but here, this part under my feet is so grainy and hard now that I wonder when a part of my skin that no one ever cares to look at began to reflect the hardening of my mind (seriously, if you want to look into someone, feather their heel with your eyelashes and you will see through those fissures)

sometimes when it tickles under the hollow of my feet I still feel them marching, those armies led by the women that my history books stomped over thud thud thud

and now under the cracks of my feet lies the warm cushion of double socks that I wear to fight this american cold as I let nostalgia for lahore’s warmth erase the childhood trauma of walking over broken china (what is better, frostbite or blood loss?)

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