Eight parts of crying on a bus

— Meghana Mungikar


This is important.


The walk up to the cliffs lined with daffodils and daisies and flowers whose names I do not know—the sea is mostly blue. Ireland calls this area a protected habitat.

There is no light at the end of this tunnel.


We have the same last name. That there is a ‘we’ when I have to talk of us is almost as inflammable as low-grade polyester. Only more. There is no ‘us’. I repeat—there is no ‘us’—if I say it enough times, it will become the truth.


The sea is a whitish green from the top. Why the sea is called so many different names in different countries is something I will never understand—everybody wants a sea of their own.


Newspapers only quote last names. I am both criminal and victim. You are nowhere, and everywhere.


The best way to teach a seven-year-old girl about anatomy is by example:
                    2 tongues
                                        1 throat
                    34324 throbbing veins that are writing into memory
                              teeth can grind and suck
                                        1 hand on 1 mouth
                    weight on weight on muffled giggles, then tears.


I am going to start to pretend I don’t remember most of it—or any of it.


And this is how I will die. This is not so important after all.

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