Mahika Singhal

Her life is a psychedelic movie /But I’m watching it sober / Let it be over / I clearly can’t do main character.

We’ll look for Polaris, kiss, and sway in the grass. We’ll hope on a comet, I’ll tell you about my wish, and you’ll get embarrassed, red as Mars. 

I won’t go back to him, but I’ll keep his hoodie if I can’t get rid of it yet. He taught me a lot about beauty, it’ll take time to forget

We got our own place, sold all their furniture — 60 dollars of cash that we left lying behind the toaster. I don’t even have curtains, our neighbors can look inside. But I don’t mind, all they’d see is us gabbing at night.

Trace me / I am a silhouette / Erase my coloring / I am a b&w sketch. 

He had internalized the Campanile’s striking by now, his heartbeat had synchronized with it.

Belonging is visceral and tactile, so lick everything and squish your face against every surface.

It won’t be without tension, but when we cash in at graduation, we would have stacked the deck in favor of Cal, in Color, more than it was when we first sat down.

My baseline of existence as a brown woman isn’t scruffy, it’s silky. Just like my underwear isn’t black. It’s polka dotted. But it still protects me just the same. My activism doesn’t have to come only in choking out my worst experiences. It can also be chucking over them.