•Three months•

-

This is not a poem
and today I won't write similies
and metaphors about gender
holding flags only till the dusk of one day,
painting protests for equality the other,
lying naked and broken at home,
with bruises on their equality seeking ice,
beaten by the same people sharing posts
on Instagram about gender equality,
about being just one and not female
or transgender, or someone different
then the most ticked box on forms.

This is not a poem
and today I promise you I won't use
the honey laden similes and metaphors
on days we are meant to celebrate us
while everything inside it remains
just as empty as the day before

(Caption)

-

Slide your fingers down my skin,
call the breathes you want me to gasp for
and paint me with your desires but
rule my moans with your art,
sliding down your kisses on my body.

-

who feels
free.

-

sometimes I put a blanket around my shoulders
and pretend I am an undercover spy in a war torn country
saving people from the wreath of people
even though I am at home
and curled up in front of my laptop
scrolling through my endless assignments,
i still feel braver for it.

sometimes when I am all alone,
i put on my favourite dress,
wear my eyeliner, style my hair in a way
i wouldn't consider to wear thinking about people and,
i don't go out in public but instead
just dance at my favourite songs and sing along
and even though no one can see me,
i still feel pretty.

And on these days,
the little things
in my solitude and daydreams
makes me believe
even if I ain't okay now,
one day,
i will be.

-

It's a cold February night and I could still hear the clock ticking. My thoughts weren't letting me sleep. A morning class awaits me by eight, where I need to show my face bright and fresh, no matter what happened last night, it's not in their syllabus for half-yearly or final. No one should know behind this I am fine of mine when asked how is my day. No one likes listening without their Instagram making them #listeners, #mental health is real, torchbearers.

In the middle of the day, I hear a teacher asking someone to read out loud like in classes, I wonder if the strongest mic can make her voice reach the teacher's home. Why can't we stop pretending that it's the same, and acknowledge one to be different? Why can't imperfection be its own perfection? I don't need people to tell me to hide my depression just because people think it's 'pagalo ki beemari', to tell others to take some baba's herb or mantra to cure it, to hide the panic attack with a smile, and keep reading their textbook, loud in the class, who doesn't even teach us how to smile and live in reality. — % &

-

Bring your face closer,
my juices desire your tongue.
— % &

-

•a part of me•— % &

-

Paid Content

-

•Love after breakup•

I see a poem standing outside my door.
I ask him what brought him here.
Did my broken pieces fall on him
and hurt him?
Or, was it my love soaked letters
still lying inside my
book, that formed the basal of our love.
I ask him, whether it is out of love
Or, curiosity to see me,
how am I smiling with the dark,
having loneliness by my side.

(Poem in caption)

-