The Smear From My Forehead: Sarada Kuchibhotla
The Smear From My Forehead
Sarada Kuchibhotla
The blue is peeling from me
not in sheets like they do in the movies…
in flakes, tiny scabs I pick at while the fan
pushes hot air that smells of someone else's dinner.
The rust was always there, I think,
under the paint I slapped on at nineteen
with a brush I never washed.
I'm in this chair. The same one.
The one with the spring that digs into my left thigh
if I sit too long. I've been sitting too long.
My mouth tastes like I've been chewing
the filter of a cigarette I didn't smoke.
There was a night..I won't say when…
when I screamed at a man in a parking lot
about nothing, about everything,
and he didn't flinch. I remember
the crack in his glasses. I remember
wanting him to hit me so I'd feel
the heat leave my body through my nose.
Now the window has a smear from my forehead.
I lean there sometimes,
watching the same dog piss on the same pole.
Inside me, nothing stirs except this
low hum, like a fridge that won't shut off,
a sound you forget until you're alone with it.
I don't want to be held.
I want someone to sit on this floor,
put their palm flat against the radiator
where the paint is bubbling,
and say, yeah, I see it too.
And stay.
(Sarada Kuchibhotla is an M.A. graduate from the University of Madras and a former English teacher with nearly 25 years of experience. She began writing at the age of 14 and has since been featured in The Significant Anthology, Umblical Chord: An Anthology for Parents, GloMag, LitStream and Worldwidewriterweb. A recipient of the NaPoWriMo TSL 2026 award, she is an active member of the Destiny Poets International Community, where her poem The Bench at the Mall was recognized as the 158th Poem of the Month.)
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