There's this smell I can't quite trace
It's spreading, tentacles coming for my throat
Proliferating
Detonating the tickers within my brain
I've inhaled copious amounts
Of sweat, of blood, of liquor, of fear, of shame, of guilt, of paranoia
And I know this isn't paranoia
Something
Something's dying
Hopelessly disintegrating
Something detested and neglected
Turning into unrecognisable mush
The vapours are quarreling with the starved cells in my body
The fumes corroding through the lining of my throat
This might be a good time to lick my wounds
But I can't spot any worth the nursing
So I dig into myself
Like the day I dug my heels in the ground hoping to hold on
I taste the brine that tickles my lip
I reach my tongue down below my navel
Pardon me for forgetting the part
That felt too alien to be mine
It's overwhelming here
The fumes grow caustic and
feel abrasive against my tongue
Can a tongue ever feel abused?
I don't mind it; it feels familiar
The chuckle that follows disgusts me
I recoil
Dense revelations settle down
My head feels immersed in the clouds
and the smell; it...
its seeping out of my pores
I feel my abdomen turn in turmoil
My uterus yells at the woman I've been or lack thereof
It's dying with my desire to be reduced to a reproductive system
It's dying with my dysphoria of entering "female" in application forms
It's dying with the the corpse of the girl I've been forced into
It makes the edges of my lips curl up
This death is a celebration; a rejoicing
It makes me recognise the image on galvanized silver
I loathe having breasts freely
and long hair
and conflict between my thighs
The stench of death relieves my tensile sternum peering at snapping
My body feels mine
and my mind is in clear, placid water
And I can see
And I can taste
And I can hear
And I can feel
Myself
It's new
it's terrifyingly authentic
White knuckled panic that I know will not leave me trickling red brine
I touch my skin and it feels known
I'm not viewing myself in third person anymore
Using my pronouns no longer takes hyper - nay unnatural - consciousness
I, me, my flow naturally
Rachana studies in Delhi Public School, India. If she's not chasing a mountaintop or an adrenaline rush, catching butterflies or her breath after dancing, then they'll probably be debating or on clandestine missions to empty peanut butter jars. They're an avid reader and writer who enjoys surrealism, classics and feminist literature and their intersection inspires her work.