Ireisha Anindya

anatomy of anxiety

 pull. shove. crash

anxiety. bursting wide open

thrusting inside. into a wreck

shallow breath. a jagged whirl.

your head. an awful drip

cesspool. pouring over body

can I pull away the trail of my guts?

first-aid act before your entrails bursts

can I throw away the nerve of my brain?

keeping it out of a dumb girl’s reach.



yet I was wet with spit

my body is not a goddamn wasteland

my head is not a fucking sewer.


anatomy of unwanted corpse

(for disabled people murdered by their own caretakers)


I sometimes wonder about the sensation of seeing your parent

In your murderer’s eyes. Of hearing their familiar voices. The same

hand that supposed to embrace you, now hurling you towards death

sentence. Your chirp of protection turns itself to assault. The betrayals runs

thicker than your blood at your last moment,

a grave injure.


I wonder as they take turns on glimpsing from the eyes of your murderer.

Listing out the cost of keeping your breath in this world. Weighing pressure

building up on your murderer’s shoulder before they raise their own hand to

pull your soul away. As if they emerge as victims when their hands are stained

with your blood.

As if you’re a footnote, dismissed.


As if your death is as natural as breathing.


Repeated image of violence flesh in vivid colors, splashing like blood in my head. 

They are closer to memory more than ever. It takes one bad turn, one

unwanted caretaker at the end of the lane when you’re disabled. It takes

one bad turn.


It takes one bad chance.



anatomy of an awkward marionette

(a passing girl, autistic edition)


If you ask me to tell you about myself, I would choke

on my own spit. When you spend your life as a

failed attempt of a mirror reflection, you can’t afford

the privilege to see your reflection flashes on the mirror.


There are some sights that are never meant to be reflected back.

There are some sights too foreign to be seen naked in broad day light.


It was a long time ago since I saw the girl with her swaying twintails,

taking an overly-eager step with her chin up. Her hands dance a careless,

marching tune, and her big eyes glinting like a new glass, ready to be filled.

She would think about the world as foreign and brave and too brand new,

unaware of invisible threads that would bind her like an awkward

marionette she is now. I miss her terribly, quietly. But I’d keep her

at the safest place, hidden from sights.


Ireisha Anindya is an emerging writer, editor, and translator based in Jakarta, Indonesia. Writing and messing with words, for her, has always been her way to express and share her own thoughts. She bears a stomach prone to lurching and a heart prone to a frenzy rhythm. Or perhaps that’s just the side-effect of living in a world clashing with her autistic mind. She can be reached at her twitter, @_finalgirl.