Written by Chandra Persaud
I did yoga today in my living room
because I’m learning to love myself
and by this,
I don’t mean salt baths and
solo movie dates.
I mean,
cracks-are-how-the-light-filters-in
love, the kind of love
where a bad day
does not end in reaching for a
bottle, a foul name for my face,
or worse– an ex.
I stepped onto the mat the same
way I have at least a
dozen times before–
reluctant, skeptical, worried
about what my mother would say.
Thirty minutes of
bending, wobbling, forehead touching
the ground, and maybe it's only
the endorphins
but I swear there is more
light in here. That night, I lay
in the dark and
envision mother's red, puffy eyes
lined with dark circles she
tries to chase away
with expensive cream. I imagine
telling her about my oil-stained
yoga mat:
Everyone who comes to this place
knows hell. When I breathe out,
I bend the bars
of my cage, press my palms
against a door, walk upon the earth
and ask it to
show me another way.
.
Chandra Persaud writes on topics such as trauma, grief, identity, and the immigrant experience. Her work has been published in Defunkt Magazine, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Rogue Agent Journal, and Pictura Journal. She was born in Guyana, immigrated to the United States with her family as a child, and fully embraces her multicultural identity. She writes from New York. You can find her (and say hi!) on Instagram: @pieces_of_acp.