I won’t shy away from a kiss,
In my head I have already devoured you.
I don’t want you to write paeans
On how my hair dreamily cascades down my waist
Or how the wind plays with my earrings
Or how my beauty stopped you in your tracks
And rendered you unable to function.
I don’t want you to ‘protect’ me
From the idiots on the road (were you one of them?)
Or the lechers at the chai wallah.
You might want to start taking notes,
I am about to expose an unacknowledged reality:
I happen to have a notion of my own sexuality.
I too, have hormones mingled in my blood
Which make desire pop in the middle of the road for a biker;
In the middle of a class for an intellectual;
In the middle of a book for someone fictional;
In the middle of… anywhere really. I don’t need an occasion for it.
You can’t change the very body you so love to tame.
You can’t deny my Desire
And yet you do. Always have.
Since you decided my body is made to make…
For whom – you are afraid to ask.
Because the answer – is me.
The darkest shade of my lipstick
Or the lowest cut of my neckline,
My unruly unthreaded eyebrow
My bikini-waxed you-know-what
Are ways I look at myself
In spite of the sexualized conundrum you would have me be.
There is a trace of possibility
That my body exists for me.
When I ask for it
You laugh it off,
Think I am cute
When I don’t however, ask for it
You blame my dress
Time of the night I dared step out.
I know it’s a lot to take in
But I have spent my life
For consuming trashy erotica,
Watching a whole episode for those five uncensored minutes,
Reaching out for my own navel sometime
Or caressing my neck,
For wanting more
And wanting it in the way I desire.
Is not a manly pursuit
And I will no more have you make a coy, simpering
Sculpture out of me.