I have some nights of sleep leftover

From the times when walls closed in on me

And sleep being the bitch it is jumped right out of my eyes.

I carry these nights in my pockets, turning them around like loose change

They don’t make the same noises

But they feel like a cat’s underbelly.

I take them out sometimes

Look at them with paranoid intensity

And put them back in my pocket with chagrin

And a little bit of possessive energy

I whistle to myself

And think however it is,

That bitch is mine. 

I pinch myself to understand that I occupy space in this world.

I look into the mirror

And take a hard look

I exist. I am.

I have my shadow tugging at my feet trying to take me forward.

My heart pumps out blood and I get Goosebumps when I am scared

But I feel like I am floating

And no one can really see me

That If I just duck, I can see the darkness beneath this world

And all the gooey dingy corners of the emptiness are just waiting to embrace me

Where then do I belong?

In the emptiness that exceeds and supersedes life

Or the world where every day is a fight I get tired of?

My body aches and my subconscious cries in agony

I look towards the wall and my shadow is still tugging

With all the will I could muster

I take a step

It’s still the same

But I think I have a promise of tomorrow.

The fight in me had died

I gave in to the spasms that came with the rains

Drop by drop I immersed in it

Drop by drop I evaporated

My senses dulled every time I opened my eyes,

Vision was not needed I understood.

So I stood with my arms wide open

And my eyes closed so tight it should have hurt

But nothing came; neither the hurt nor the darkness

I felt meadows and saw colours I thought were extinct

I felt a caress of the branches of long ago

When I was more me than I am someone else

It looped me in and whispered

“I will never let go”

I smiled,

“You too shall pass.”

Now she needed medication to stay the course. She wondered whether every smile that touched her lips were medically induced. It’s all chemicals. It’s all function. Finding herself was becoming a little harder each day.

She looked at the ceiling, counting the cracks and letting her mind drift. The song on the ipod was droning on in her ears. She never really listened to lyrics. She liked the hum of the music. If it made her thoughts dance, it was enough.

She had come a long way from the naive little girl full of impossible hopes and dreams and unrealistic expectations and views of the world. Now years later, she smiled at her cynical self. She had gone through the worst. Breakups, heart breaks, betrayals, failure, disappointment and yet somehow she was proud of herself. She had not given up. She was still here, wasn’t she?

Slowly she realised she had lost the habit of justifying herself too. Why would she? Did she need to? She always was the fiercely independent woman and maybe she had drifted from the path a bit. However, now she was coming back, bit by bit. Every step she took was an effort she could not possibly explain to anyone. It was all chemicals mixed with emotions that run on rainbows and unicorns.

Understanding her was a difficult feat and it was high time she gave up trying to make people see things her way. It’s much easier to do things than to get people along with you with persuasion.

The ipod was still humming a song in her ears. She tried concentrating on the lyrics. Then a minute later she got up to make some tea and thought of painting her thoughts on paper. She was sure she would end up watching a sitcom. 

First Slam

It starts with the genitalia,

The difference of it

It does not matter when you are young  and Mother says it’s just meant to be.

It starts to matter when you grow older

And summers don’t allow you to take off the sweaty t-shirt at home.

When closed doors have a different meaning

When you can’t sleep beside your brother as it is not “proper” anymore.

It is never a good different. It is never special

Hide your bras, your panties from the menfolk while their underwear can swing from the lines in glory.

You must never tell anyone you are having your periods. Tell them you are not well

The pads must be hidden

It’s not nice to talk about it.

Don’t get near the altar. Don’t touch anything for it will too become impure.

‘Don’t’ becomes the resonating truth of existence.

Mothers start to worry when your breasts grow. For breasts give men the opportunity to do something with their hands.

Darkness amplifies its perils when the daughter is growing up.

Men everywhere look like predators.

There are hushed talks with elders where advice is given. Remember only the woman can get pregnant. Only the woman carries the blame. Only the woman carries the shame.

The penis becomes the weapon and all penises are the parasites who seek refuge in your private place.

The place you should keep pure. For you have no desire.

 It’s only men who seek desire. For a man by any other name is never a slut.

The difference does not go away.

You have breasts and you bleed once a month.

You will be judged by the size of your boobs and the tightness of your vagina.

You will be judged if you smoke , drink alcohol or wear clothes unfit for the woman in our society.

You cannot be just friends with a man. You are giving signals you are unaware of.

If you show parts of your body, you are asking for it.

You are never your own person. You are the daughter, the girlfriend, the wife, the mother, the sister. Never just a woman.

And you will always aspire to become a man, for Penis envy is the books and no one envies a vagina.

It starts with genitalia

It ends when you own it.