The ancient men,
They were insecure,
Insecure about power,
They did not take it,
The rule of mom.

After they forgot the source womb,
They made all attempts to defame,
Belittling every aspect of women,
I am ashamed of how they became,
Because in the end it is we men.

thrice already bungee jumped / said with much pride,
but haven't yet learnt
to not carry knots of tension in my shoulders
to not clench my teeth together in terror
to not dig trails of red into my palms
with chewed down nails
and not trap stale air in my lungs until they nearly explode
let them turn the colour of rotting grapes as
every last molecule of oxygen leaks from my nose

when all I want is for my muscles to let loose
let go
for my feet to stop clawing (desperately and at the very last second)
to every ledge and corner
because these hands
and these lungs,
these thighs,
these eyes
and this heart
wants
to go
away -

far, far away, like that land from the fairytale
my mother read to me at night
to send me away
(just like Hansel and Gretel's mother did
when her bones got leaner
like my mother's is getting, now)
into a land she could only send me to -
never follow.

my letting go was the paradox
of sunshine on a snowy mountain,
a mother's lies to her children -
"I'm okay",
"It doesn't matter", -
my letting go
let go
only to slink back between the sheets
and hold you close.
my letting go
wears love in its eyes
stitches in hope from the sky
and prays for what was let gone
to come back;
else, you were never mine to begin with
but i, i am now yours,
(and only yours)
until the very end.