my reflection plays a record of song & static — Swati P.

i. 

sometimes in the month i get up and pull my phone to my face / & the early-morning clock light paints a thousand grinning colors onto my reflection /

that day i dress in a toothy smile / dirty lip gloss fraying at the hem / but my skin doesn’t shatter in the sun like usual /

at school i see my reflection in glass & she doesn’t scream / instead she plays a song on the record player /

the needle drags along my skin 

&  it doesn’t pierce /

ii. 

at the month’s dusk the disc still spins / the song on repeat / the needle eating away the grooves / 

i watch as the music melts into nighttime heater’s buzz / & the notes unfurl into grim hallway /

my arms stretch to grab them / but my fingers chaff empty air /

 & so i drop / breathless / lungs full of /

  static / the song is /

/ dead /

 and so is the sun /

its offerings flicker like fallen stars / before my eyes / then sink into the earth’s core / with no farewell /

& now the shadows cradle me. 

i touch my face & feel needle scars /

---

Swati P. is a student based in Seattle, Washington, who enjoys writing fiction and poetry. Her works explore themes like mental health, Indian American culture, the meaning of femininity, and various social justice topics such as immigration. In her free time, you can find her writing, sketching, listening to music, or analyzing her favorite classic literature.