This Isn’t the Start of the Story by Sumitra Singam

    Torsten Behrens CC



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This Isn’t the Start of the Story

It doesn’t start on a hospital gurney, my wrists bandaged tight as the choke in my heart. It doesn’t start with Zoe pulling Marty into her room, even though she knew I thought his eyes burned like fire, and about the pull in my groin whenever he looks at me. It doesn’t start with why I like bad boys in the first place – that rip of danger, like something inside has gashed open, spilling bits of me out into the night. It doesn’t start with what happened before, the thing that made danger feel exciting. It doesn’t start with how Ma has no caution either, like it’s a memory of herself scattered across myself, so there’s always some new stepdad winking secrets at me like we share something special, his need spilling out of him like he is too small to keep it in, and how Ma thinks that’s love. Like Dad, the first man who ripped Ma open mindlessly, like an easy snack, stuffing her into his great need. It doesn’t start with Ma’s Ma, telling her to quit making up tales. It doesn’t start with Ma’s Ma’s Ma, or a long line of Mas, irritable, bound together like worms knotted deep in their guts. It starts with the men, and their careless taking. If this is a story, then that’s where it starts.


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Sumitra Singam is a Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She travelled through many spaces, both beautiful and traumatic to get there and writes to make sense of her experiences. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). She works in mental health. You can find her and her other publication credits on twitter: @pleomorphic2