A digital magazine on sexuality in the Global South
An illustration showing a naked body wearing only white and pink lace panties
CategoriesErotica and SexualityVoices

Legacy

You were passed on to me by my mother,

She has hundreds of you,

Dusty, torn, ravished,

In an abandoned heap of muslin behind her clothes.

She didn’t hand them over,

I stole,

Because I would wonder what made her so happy, occupied, involved.

 

Looking at my tiny

Equally dusty, torn, ravished collection

I wonder

Why I kept coming back to you.

I never particularly liked you,

But here you are

Occupying so much space.

In my cupboard,

(I don’t have to hide you, like mom, mind you)

So much in my head,

Most of all,

In my body.

Out of everything you have touched,

The deepest impressions are left on my body.

Some inside it.

 

Pulling up my faded cotton panties

With holes in them the size of ignorance,

I would wonder,

How would I be desirable to anyone,

Wearing these?

The prickly uneven hair

Sprouting near my navel

Would touch my fingers with a soft thud,

Making them drive further south.

I liked it.

I enjoyed it.

But none of your heroines displayed similar body terrains.

However, I am waiting.

 

You have always been a strange mix.

You make me want,

Beg sometimes.

I discovered the hot breaths and cold compresses of desire between your pages.

Like a thirsty, insatiable lover

I would come back for more,

For what, I am not sure.

You made me want

Yet you hardly made me feel wanted.

 

Once in a while I would come across

Imperfections

(A dirty word, but that’s what they call them,

Tricks of the trade).

I’d breathe a little lighter

And feel the space around me expand,

The walls would stop contracting

And closing in on me.

Where do I look for more space though?

 

Do I come back for the happy endings?

Or for the men,

Who know pace?

Who take it slow?

Or hard, when they have to?

They seem to listen, these men.

They seem to feel.

The worlds inside them are abuzz with emotions.

Nevertheless,

They too aren’t devoid of their…

Imperfections, should we call them?

 

Every time I pick you up

I know

That the landscape of my body

And my desires

(Probably) won’t be unrecognised here.

In this grave absence and presence

Of body and want around me,

I come to you

Knowing

That the language of my desires and fantasies,

Partly rhymes with yours.

Sometimes that is all I need.

Cover Image: Pixabay

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Article written by:

Kajol is a Literature Major, often speechless; she finds written expression more comfortable and potent than the spoken one and navigates life through literature and rhyme. She is a firm believer in the power of fairly represented and unproblematic-ally located stories and accounts of individuals as political tools and emotionally relatable texts. An Intersectional Feminist, she aims at working on the narratives of women of color and gender as it operates in her part of the world.

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