good times
and bad times
are so hard
to tell apart.
sometimes,
feeling insignificant
makes me
do my best.
sometimes,
feeling powerful
sucks out
all my energy.
they say
happy feelings
transforms everything.
i disagree.
trying to feel happier
matters so much more
than actually feeling happy.
once i lose the will,
i lose all ways…
my reflection
talks back
saying that
it feels no remorse
for those
who claim
to have been hurt
by me
for
they caused me
too much harm.
why can’t i
feel the same?
why do i
feel for them?
i am still that little girl
who didn’t think twice
before shedding a tsunami of tears
in front of a tsunami of people.
i am still that little girl
who didn’t feel the need
to hide her upper body
(of course, i didn’t have a cleavage back then).
i am still that little girl
who asked the most random people
if they could give her a chocolate
or help her with her backaches.
i am (very much) still that little girl
who could share
her deepest secrets
with complete strangers.
i now realise that
at least one out of
the tsunami of people
i cried in front of
would come up to me
with a tissue (or a flower).
i now realise that
at least one out of
the ones staring at me
would look into my eyes
and not my (almost huge) breasts.
i now realise that
at least one out of
the many random people
would have my favourite chocolate
or help me with my backache.
i also realise that
at least one out of
the many strangers
would use my secret
to explain
the true meaning of life
to me.
there used to be a time
when i’d make a list of all the ‘one mores’
i wanted from my partner —
one more meeting
one more kiss
one more chance.
today,
i see how the ‘one mores’
brought temporary happiness
and permanent loss.
so, all i do is
look for reasons
to call the ‘previous ones’ ‘more than enough’.
i saw you struggle
while trying to figure out
where to put
those ceramic stars
in our room
(blue and white beauties).
i let you struggle
for the room and the stars
were equally yours.
you initially placed them
between our beds.
-i thought they looked great there
a few weeks later,
the struggle returned.
– you weren’t happy with their placement
so, i looked at your confused face
and smiled.
you walked all around with those stars
to find a suitable spot for them
until………
you accidentally dropped them
and they broke into tiny little pieces.
this time,
it was you who looked at me
(expecting me to be upset).
but, i had no reaction.
“you bought them…”
you said with disappointment.
“i should’ve let them remain
where they were.”
“it’s fine,”
i replied.
“don’t worry.”
but, you were already worried.
over the next few minutes,
i saw you struggle (yet again)
while trying to figure out
how to fix
those ceramic stars
with whatever we had in our room
(blue and white shards).
with patience and time,
you turned those shards
into stars
and
i finally looked at you
with adoration.
-here’s how you made us last for so long
here i am (once again)
stuck between multiple worlds —
with a million chances, a billion possibilities, and infinite ways of reacting.
have i lost all old feelings?
have i caught new ones?
will i be as helpless as before?
will i give all of myself to them (once again)?
would they want me the way they currently do?
would they be as detached as they are right now?
is history repeating itself?
i will not be the same ever again.
but, i am still who i was two years ago.
unclean mirror, imperfect art.
sunny afternoon, a fresh start.
momentary happiness, momentary gloom.
incomplete assignments, hostel room.
detached ex-girlfriend, new intimacy.
same old backache, a mind that’s fuzzy.
full hearts, triggered souls.
soothing cuddles, midnight strolls.
twin bicycles, homecooked rice.
old connections, pajamas with stripes.
unmissed breakfast, missed dinner.
cold coffee, no liquor.
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
Silencing her is suffocating.
Allowing her a voice is exhausting.
There was a time
when people appreciated her
for her openness.
They saw her for who she was
– just another girl next door
who liked pink and had a clean cupboard.
They didn’t need more colours (than just pink)
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.
I still don’t respond.
This writing can also be found on Women’s Web. Here is the link for the same: https://www.womensweb.in/2022/03/stop-you-are-mansplaining-mar22wk1sr/
bong&beautiful 