string.strip (version 1)

The sea brings back bodies. Did you find mine?

I walked into the water. The day was vast, my dreams small. And the sand
burned hot, the light hotter.

And I walked.

Toward the light.
I want to go home.
 
string.strip (version 2)

Did no one tell you healing also hurts?

Pain and pleasure and pleasure and pain. My landmarks have crumbled, is
that okay?

Kill me softly.
 
Let me into the light.
I want to go home.

string.strip (version 18)

Male gaze. Female gaze.
Both and none. Void and null.
I am blind when I look at myself. When the darkness shifts, there is only grey.
What am I without my trauma?
 
Did no one tell you healing also hurts?
 
Walk toward the light.
I want to go home.

string.strip (version 22)

The gaps between what I am and what you see grow wider. The chasm yawns, tired.

Do you see light?
Walk. Walk toward it.
I want to go home.
 
string.strip (version 58)

The sea swallows me. All my versions – The quiet, the anger, the fire and the forsaken, the sadness, black loneliness.
The parts that love, those that want to harm.
The sabotage, the sweetness.
The longing and the softness.

All the pain.
The shards of light.
 
Where is the rest of it?
I want to go home.
 
string.strip (version 182)

Did you find my body yet? It’s the one with the 11-month lease. 
Who am I when my trauma washes out?

Did no one tell you healing also hurts?

Show me the light.
I am going home.

…
Maya Nandhini is a writer and journalist based in Bengaluru, India. They like exploring themes on gender, identity, life and death. Their work has previously appeared in The Bombay Review, Unseen Fiction and The Bangalore Review.