Dreamland | Anagha Smrithi

Shame raised you. Third parent. Up at 
dawn. Pinning your hair down. Dark 
ribbons. Pulling your spine up. That’s 
right. Breakfast at the blue table. Just 
enough, no more. No more. Watching 
from the kitchen. Bird eye. If you only 
tried. You could be someone. A real 
girl. Chin down. What do you see? 
Sidewalk. Gravel. Sputtering road. 
Wasteland. Good. Hand in hand. All-day. 
Grabbing your wrist. In the lunch 
line. Your body. Is your worst kept 
secret. Try better, girl. Tally marks on 
your thighs. Any time of the day now.  
Arriving like bad rain. Sulphur and wet 
dirt. Whispering. The sound of 
smallness. Dinner-time. Feeding you 
broth and marrow. It reaches your 
stomach. Still alive. Grows into 
sickness. But that is later. Now your 
bed is made. Bed-time story. Once 
upon a time. There was a girl. Who 
found the red-hot brink of the earth. 
And fell right off the edge. Lights off. 
Holding you. So tight. You can’t 
breathe. Sleep tight, love. Sweet 
dreams now. 

Anagha Smrithi is a 26 year old writer based in Bangalore, India. Her work has previously appeared in Anthropocene, Hellebore Press and Nether Magazine, among others. She writes about the body and everyday spaces. For more of her work, find her newsletter on the poetics of everyday life over here.