On most days I have taken pride in being more geeky than sexy.
In being a turn off than a turn on.
In being more asexual than sexual.
“Hey girl, tell me your figure?”
‘Um, sorry? What?’
‘Your figure? How do you look like?’
‘Well, a Unicorn.’
And on some days I would go as far as calling myself an Amoeba for that matter.
Last night when a guy asked me about the last time I had sex,
I whispered to myself ‘I am a virgin but who cares?’
So I told him that life fucks me every day.
I spilled wine on my date in February because he was too chatty.
Made March wait for me under the sun while I slept my sacred sleep,
because who wants to kiss men on first dates?
And April? Well!
You wouldn’t want to know about it.
But if you insist,
I broke his phone while he was ordering food and I think he hates me for that.
But it is okay,
that is what I wanted.
I whisper, ‘virgin.’
I have been told a lot of times to open up.
‘Don’t you hate bold women?’
‘No, I like them in my bed.’
I see your patriarchy fall like dried leaves
as you smirk until I roll my eyes and leave,
waiting for you to feel foolish,
about your hypocrisy.
Waiting for you to realize
that the next time you offer some girl a drink,
you make sure that she isn’t a feminist
Or even if not a feminist,
then she shouldn’t take offense.
I am often objectified,
more skin and bones
than heart and intellect.
More color and size
than human and emotions.
More body and gender
Love! Now it seems to be missing
as my bones feel hollow
my skin feels blue
my body shrinks.
It seems to be missing in the world
where you and I are sexually utilitarian,
‘Look, it’s a two-way process.
Even you will feel good and happy.
Tell me, who does not feel lust?’
I am sorry, I am more about love.
I am sorry, I don’t put happiness in lust.
I am sorry, I don’t stand vulnerable on the line between the two.
I am sorry for having my mind clear in place.
I am sorry for not opening up to you.
Sorry? Well, sorry for not being sorry at all,
because honestly, fuck you!