when that shy
strand of hair
trembles out of
your skin.
slowly

ashamed of its
wanton birth.  

thinking it's an
'unwanted' curse
you're plagued
with, making it
your shame,
a pariah you must
deal with. thinking,
why on a man, i confirm his
manhood for a world revolving
in binaries. but, for a
woman all i am is a furtive indignity.

i want you to
caress it's roots, and
whisper to them-
           i will never let your
           birth go in vain by
           obliterating you
           to satiate howling
           bellies of hollow
           skeletons floating
           around seeking young
           flesh to feast upon.

i will honour you and if i may
choose to live without you.

i'll do that under no obligation
from a world assessing my
worth from the
arch of my hips.
or the
color of my skin.

if you were to rise
against the lashes
your spine bears
witness to.i know you
could burn the cities -
echoing enslaved
cries of your mother. or,
the cities tainted in
red, with the blood
of your father.

but, you don't.

for you know what it's like to lose
what you love.




(such is your love for a city that turned into rubble everything you
ever loved)

the tenants who
came before
marauded this temple
you so keenly
worship.
so how do I let you in
without mistrust,

even though you claim
to be
      'a permanent resident'

the stories of women you write sonnets upon , or the ones on caricatures
i consume.
they're all fiction to me.

for the women i know are all looking out the window, wandering into endless abyss.
or waiting on tiptoes - to be tied down
in the bonds of 'holy' matrimony.
when they were young,
living on dictums of
father and brothers was an
unspoken, but frequently
enforced trend.
now no longer lean saplings, (who could be stomped upon with ease)
but sprawling, majestic trees
with branches chartering territories
that remain  forbidden  for the tree.
their offshoots
are sheared (for they can't be crushed with ease)
in the name of honour.
to ebb out all the figments of
rebellion, the tree
might hold in it's gamut.
still tamed in the garden,
a new gardener comes in place.
a slightly younger one, who
comes with his own tenets.
restraining her with a
strap, in the name of modesty.
he satiates himself by strangling
last shreds of revolt
her father couldn't slay.
the woman is caged in bars of shame,
all in the name of  honour.
yet again.
why is it that the women i know only lessen with age?
but the men smirk upon,only inflating their slyness. as the years grow on them.

As I sit beside this
lake,
my mind wanders
somewhere else.

yearning to climb atop
these hills,
or bury in the stupor
of magic pills.

Don't tell me that
you know how
I feel.

only this mad girl
knows, how
paltry she's been.

This garb of lies
is too heavy
to hold.

petty shoulders of
mine, can't do it
anymore.

Each moment is a
step into unknown
realms,

Please
just let me take my magic pills
to meet my happy end.

​shards of glass lay scattered,                
your hands bore gory deeds of the night,

a sinister feeling lay inside,                      
yet I chose to hold on.

drunken revelry' now a massacre, of    
the self and soul, both washed ashore  

words now trembled, too afraid to
spring, chose to perish,                              
for what might befall.

the quill was an ally, now a foe,              
the ink too dry to leave an imprint upon.

Amidst the surrender of self, everything
else gave away, but                          
thoughts to rebel, still found a way.

refused to concede to a feudal lord.
Maybe they'll liberate my broken soul,

or maybe,                                                           ­ 
one day, they too shall surrender to my feudal lord.