girl lessons by Syna Majumder (16, India)*

[Content warning: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and references to emotional abuse]

the concept is easy: my mother is 
a smoking gun, lying on the worlds 
she bought and kept, keeping her 
eyes steady on my slow climb down 
to her. when we talk, it is in jokes, 

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little skittish things so that i can 
see her insides. her sharp teeth. 
the round, heavenly shape of her 
skull. i don't miss her because i am 
going to her, everyday, pinching 
the end of a cigarette between 
my lips like she did, keeping my 
head over my breath. i learnt holding 
my life on the edge of a cliff at her 
knee. i learnt the tilt of her head, 
mapping the holes in my head 
with the skin around my eyes. what 
i will be is the memory of her, 
a skeleton shadow of brilliance. 
i go further below, like Virgil or an 
admirable pop idol, and think of 
the links of my spine as an instrument. 
the xylophone for mother's day, 
nerve endings ripped and mounted 
on bedroom walls near debate awards. 
who am i if not her? what am i if not 
a name attached to her name? being 
older has never been easy when 
she is so real, blinking impossibly 
down at my failures. the concept is easy: 
my mother is bones, and i mimic her. 

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