You were passed on to me by my mother,
She has hundreds of you,
Dusty, torn, ravished,
In an abandoned heap of muslin behind her clothes.
She didn’t hand them over,
I stole,
Because I would wonder what made her so happy, occupied, involved.
Looking at my tiny
Equally dusty, torn, ravished collection
I wonder
Why I kept coming back to you.
I never particularly liked you,
But here you are
Occupying so much space.
In my cupboard,
(I don’t have to hide you, like mom, mind you)
So much in my head,
Most of all,
In my body.
Out of everything you have touched,
The deepest impressions are left on my body.
Some inside it.
Pulling up my faded cotton panties
With holes in them the size of ignorance,
I would wonder,
How would I be desirable to anyone,
Wearing these?
The prickly uneven hair
Sprouting near my navel
Would touch my fingers with a soft thud,
Making them drive further south.
I liked it.
I enjoyed it.
But none of your heroines displayed similar body terrains.
However, I am waiting.
You have always been a strange mix.
You make me want,
Beg sometimes.
I discovered the hot breaths and cold compresses of desire between your pages.
Like a thirsty, insatiable lover
I would come back for more,
For what, I am not sure.
You made me want
Yet you hardly made me feel wanted.
Once in a while I would come across
Imperfections
(A dirty word, but that’s what they call them,
Tricks of the trade).
I’d breathe a little lighter
And feel the space around me expand,
The walls would stop contracting
And closing in on me.
Where do I look for more space though?
Do I come back for the happy endings?
Or for the men,
Who know pace?
Who take it slow?
Or hard, when they have to?
They seem to listen, these men.
They seem to feel.
The worlds inside them are abuzz with emotions.
Nevertheless,
They too aren’t devoid of their…
Imperfections, should we call them?
Every time I pick you up
I know
That the landscape of my body
And my desires
(Probably) won’t be unrecognised here.
In this grave absence and presence
Of body and want around me,
I come to you
Knowing
That the language of my desires and fantasies,
Partly rhymes with yours.
Sometimes that is all I need.
Cover Image: Pixabay
