falling in love with the wrong person

come, walk into my book, a gorgeous fantasy

there are chirpy chirpy birds, and bright bright sunrises

the wind whispers poems in my ears, the trees are

green green, and the flowers smell loud like perfumes

it’s beautiful, isn’t it?

come, look at the gorgeous man, his eyes, his smile

here love is when he’s too shy to look at you

or talk to you in front of his friends

or be seen with you in public

or be caught on the phone with you

when he’s pooping alone at home

here love is when he’s so nervous to talk to you

about anything other than himself

it’s not selfish, it’s love, he sticks to familiar topics

to a life he knows, he doesn’t want to be caught a fool

if hap stance you utter a word he doesn’t understand

he’s a hero, a real one, the kind you can’t find in the real world

but you have to *understand* him, his hurt, his pain

everything that makes him like needles right now

he does not bleed you to hurt

he bleeds you because he can’t help it

come, walk into my book, a gorgeous fantasy

exaggerated streams of a dream date

and picture-perfect first kisses

the love is lovelier than love ever was

the pain more painful than when the book is closed

there is hurt that never lasts too long

and every single day, I give this story a different happy ending

On Masturbation

Dress up tonight in your sexiest outfit, or just stay in those pajamas,

or even better- wear nothing at all; light some candles, or keep all the

tube-lights on – stare at your gorgeous skin- open your

legs wide and run your palm along the forbidden territories of

the body; feel the mold of your breasts, your nipples awaken from

the alarm of the pinch, and your mouth sigh at this casual intimacy;

slip your hands into your underwear, or just take the damn thing off,

rub the length of your finger along your clitoris, feel the thousands of

nerve endings send electricity to your brain; move your fingertips in circular

motions - both fast and slow, close your eyes and blank out the world,

whisper and moan and shout any name you want (or not); feel the speed

increase, the thighs tighten, the increasing pulse, the sound of bursting

heartbeats, and keep your fingers moving till your body breaks into you,

the head spilling with ecstasy for five seconds or ten; stay still, stare at

your tummy as it goes up and down, feel the hair on your body begin to rise

a standing ovation you truly deserve for your performance tonight.

hiding

When Meera died, they dissected her body looking for her soul
Scratched layer after layer of her dead blue skin
Shaved off her hair, took out the eyes
Carefully carved out what was left her smile
The left hand, the right hand, the right leg, the left leg
Sliced and given to each family member to look into carefully
Doctors were called to empty her torso, her soul must’nt get lost in the mush
Of the small and large intestine, the slight smokey lungs
The heart was the most important place, stories called it the soul home
The brain was handled by a neurosurgeon for everything in there creates
What is called the soul; the grandmother walked in and said
It must have hidden in her clothes!
Out rained her closet, all the colors so bright
Duppattas in the air, patialas, and shirts
Sumitra di almost found a sweater that smelled like her
They found her 18th birthday red top, and earrings gifted by a person she truly loved
The tailor-made pair of loose, long pants, and the beloved lehenga worn twice a year
The t-shirt she wore everyday for a week, and her favorite summer shorts
They searched and searched from bra to sock, but the soul just seemed to be lost!
Dad came out with her diary, the sacred private place
She poured herself in this for so long, my Meera must be here
The pages came tumbling out, they had held her world so long
But all paa could find in there were the lyrics of their favorite song
Quotes that Kabir had shared, a conversation she once had with Uma
One entry sounded like Rudra, rough and raw, sensuous and kind
Another had Naina between the words as she went on about the depths of the mind
It held the usefulness of mom’s meditation, the meaning of her favorite word
There was background music produced by Sid, his world inside her world;
A mangled body, scattered clothes, a private diary no more
When Meera died they dissected her life, searching for her soul.

Later that year when Kabir died they dissected his life searching for his soul
What a surprise it was to find Meera as they emptied out his drawer.