looking into your eyes felt like a mix of calm and chaos
it didn’t give me butterflies but still made all cells in my body flutter
you didn’t let me hug you (or even touch you) but i felt as if we were one
we looked very different (and almost mismatched)
(one with keratin in her hair, the other with hair curled by hard water one with deep cleavage, the other being completely covered from head to toe one with clipper nails, the other with shaped & painted nails one with tears in her eyes, the other with tearless but sadder eyes one wanting the moment to last forever, the other being in a rush to leave) but i somehow knew that you and i were…a miracle
and more possessions (than random diaries full of poems)
to realise that she wasn’t one of them.
-they saw her in her femininity and in her poetry
–they praised her, got her poems printed, and read them when they were alone
The lesbian inside me screams for the same recognition.
She declines calls, ignores messages, and looks for ways to explain to men she doesn’t need them to reply to her stories about the ‘D/S’ in BDSM (“I’ve never been with a ‘D’,” they say. “This ‘D’ isn’t for you,” she thinks.) Not every V needs a D inside it (do they not get that?)
“I know what I am doing,” I say to him. “I have read all the instructions carefully and that too multiple times.”
He continues to explain all the instructions to me.
“Listen,” I finally say. “Stop mansplaining.”
He sends another voice note with explanations and a message about who I can approach to get help.
“Stop mansplaining,” I say again, without reacting to any of his messages.
“I am not trying to do that,” he replies. “See, you are so confused. That is why you need help. Approach her, she’ll guide you.”
“Yes, you are!” I say once again. “Yes, you are mansplaining.”
“If you felt that way, then I am sorry,” he says. “I was just trying to help…”
“It’s fine,” I reply.
“I don’t know why you have to get so angry about the smallest of things,” he says.
“Oh, so I am the one who’s wrong now?” I ask. “You’ll guilt-trip ME for calling out YOUR mansplaining?”
“Okay, fine,” he says. “Let’s please end this conversation here.”
“Sure,” I reply as I keep my phone aside.
My phone rings after five minutes.
“Don’t forget to call her tomorrow,” he says. “She’ll help you out.”
“I thought you just said that you wanted to end the conversation,” I snap.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he replies. “The conversation about you thinking that I was mansplaining, not about the help you need.”
I don’t reply to him and keep my phone aside, once again.
He sends three more messages with the names and contact details of three different people I can reach out to.
“Wow! You’re such a saviour.” I say sarcastically when I’ve had enough. “I have so much more clarity now.”
“You’re welcome,” when I hear him smile, I know that he couldn’t sense the sarcasm in my tone.
I get back to my work and try hard to forget everything he said. However, while reading the instructions again, I realise that I hadn’t just been right, but even accurate when it came to my understanding of the entire process. So, I take a picture this time to prove my correctness to him.
“Correct!” he replies, as soon as he sees the picture. “I was wrong.”
I don’t respond.
He sends a smiling face to me a few minutes later.