The first hit came unexpectedly,
as though a shock of lightning had coursed through me.
The second tore skin, letting rain from above pierce my bloodstream and flood my body.
The third was faster and sickeningly loud when flesh and bone and brick and rain clanged through the night.

The grass is green and the sun is shining and for a moment, the world seems to stop.
Time freezes and the kids in the playground jump in the air and laugh, mouths open in that happy way we seem to lose as we grow up.
 That one tear that rolled down my face is suspended in mid air and if I reach out, I can grab it and make it disappear.

I pick at the band-aid on my knee. I can’t remember how I got hurt in the first place.
My phone is ringing and I ignore it, trying to remember what shape my wounds are.
I only remember that I was running and my chest seemed to collapse when I fell. 
I wonder, how many band-aids it would take now to cover me from head to toe. It’s a silly thought and I start to smile.

My phone is ringing again and I still ignore it, now looking straight into the mirror at what is left of me.
When I wake up, your arms encircle me like black tape on my mouth. You whisper love into my ear, handcuffing me to your side.
Your embrace is like a bandage on my heart and I’m forgetting what’s underneath it.

Anjali Agarwalla is a student in New York City. Growing up in one of the cultural hubs of America has made her enjoy not only writing and reading, but also art, dancing and music. She is a trained Kathak dancer.