Lust Not Love

Pulling the sheets off my bare legs,
I quickly look for my pants in the dark,
struggling through it,
I look at the man sleeping next to me,
snoring so loudly, smelling of last night’s rum.
I quickly tear off a paper, and write,
“That was good, may we never see each other again.”
and that was that.

I run out of the building,
out in the open air,
which still smells of roses and lilies
of last night’s Valentine’s Day.
Picking up the rose from the street,
I think about the bouquet of roses I got last night.
It smelled like love, like it was supposed to.
But, last night was not love.
It was lust. It was a drug.
Our generation’s new favourite drug.

A night of extreme lust,
tearing the clothes apart,
craving for every bit of the body.
But where is the love?
Where is the passion of creating something beautiful?
When did making love turn into a monstrous act of
breaking hearts and promises?
No wonder no one wants to be good, kind and compassionate.

Gone are the days of exchanging love letters,
of talking on the phone,
of sitting on our brother’s bike,
and giggling and laughing,
until our parents come.
Gone are the days when exchanging gifts meant
making a playlist of favourite songs,
or making a card, or a cake, or writing a poem,
and not just sending across an Amazon gift card,
or drinking till you pass out.

What happened to our generation?
When did we stop caring about our feelings?
When did we become so scared of falling in love?
When did we stop being good?




I was lying down on an uncomfortable bed,
while a lady doctor was examining my bruises,
someone was whispering in my ear,
“It’s all going to be okay”
but, I knew
the pain between my legs,
blood gushing out of my vagina,
were a proof that
nothing will be ever okay.

I was scared.
I knew I had to speak up
I knew I had to make sure
that no other girl is a victim
to non-consensual sex,
to violence and abuse, domestic or not,
to being denied the right to pleasure.
But, I was scared.
What will the society say?

They said,
it’s your fault.
Why did you have to wear that short skirt
which makes you look like a slut?
And I believed it.
I believed that my favourite skirt
which makes me feel
confident and poised,
is the reason a man came inside me,
without my consent.

They said,
a girl should be modestly dressed,
because she is an object of desire
and the way I am clothed
decides who gets to use my body.
So the way I see it,
it’s not me, it is a piece of cloth,
which has a greater control over my body.

It is always our fault.
It is our clothes and not our words
which matter to those who dominate us.
And while, every cell in my body
wants to protest and shout at the top of my lungs
against patriarchy,
against non-consensual sex,
against violence;
All I can do right now
is whisper,
“Me Too.”

The Clothes (May) Make the (Wo)man


This year,
I want to shout;
shout my slogans
until I tire.
Tell the world,
they don’t decide
who I choose to be,
what I choose to be
and, how I choose to be;
not anymore.

This year,
I want to cheer;
cheer for the women
for what they are:
Smart, strong and so surreal.
Crossing the ocean of hate,
bringing themselves up
every time
they are pushed down.

This year,
I want to squeal;
squeal with happiness,
shameless and unfettered,
at a child’s innocence.
Reminding you and me
what a joy
this life can be.

This year,
I want to
shout, cheer, squeal,
This year,
I want to make myself heard.


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