Film Footage by Sruthi Amalan

Film Footage

I spent my childhood with a split open mind, 

held in place by my mother’s hand.

My eyes were a video camera, recording takes

to be safe kept in the storage space called body. 

For each film reel rendered, the director 

added her touches, her smudges. 

She connected one scene to another

through cuts and craftsmanship, 

creating her story. She’d change the script 

when she deemed it unfit, digging her claws 

into the scenes that didn’t belong.

Damaging the recordings. My mind made 

of metal pieces, rusting and rotting, poison 

seeping into the surrounding memories. 

Slowly destroying that which was once cherished.

After each day of filming, the director would check her work.

Once satisfied, she’d stitch my mind up back up 

and seal it off with a goodnight kiss.