I am a drop of water pushing against the tide
and rolling down my cheek - my hand wipes it away
but wait, I am acid, now my hand has a hole
in it that water flows through, making its jagged edges
smoother slowly eating it away - now I have no hand
except for a phantom, made of air - it’s cooler than my old hand though
it can shoot lasers and zap you dead
at least in my brain (then again, isn’t everything?)
I let the acid fall everywhere, it makes my job easier
until only hair is left behind to clog my shower drain
Tejashree Murugan (she/her) is a writer and student at IIT Madras. Her work has been published in The B'K, The Aurora Journal, Ethel, and in:cite journal, among others. In her free time, she is a poetry reader for The Mark Literary Review. She can be reached @earth2tj