Please tread gently. This poem has potentially disturbing content.

I see death, perched at my window.
Sometimes, they even sit on the edge of the bed.
Death is my friend now!
I am often tempted to draw them into a kiss.
They no longer hold a scythe,
and are no longer dressed in a cape.
They dress like my ex: shabby t-shirt, greying jeans, and sneakers,
or whatever those shoes are called in their world.
We have a conversation sometimes,
or they just watch over me as I sleep.
I am often tempted to join them on their journey back to their land,
but I think, for now, I shall stay.

I hear the cuss words from the neighbour boy as I pass by.
“Chakka,” he spat, because I was not like him,
looking for pussy constantly to stick his dick into.
My existence used to be a crime,
but even after the law has changed, I don’t expect acceptance.
What a joke. I am craving a good, appreciating word,
but I am only disappointed. I am not even hurt anymore;
cuss words have become part of my hearing system,
the language used to construct my body.

I smell the judgement
and the disappointment
of my parents as I enter the hall;
it stinks of their silence on my sexuality.
It doesn’t exist; it will disappear if they deny it.
I will become ‘normal’ again.
I just need to see the baba,
sit in a pooja,
eat the medicines that will rip it out of me.
Or, oh – they can also beat it out of me
because I can smell a conspiracy
that ends with me being straight or married to some girl.
The smells of love and trust
have been overpowered by the stink of hate and distrust,
but at least, I have the privilege to be able to walk out.

I taste, unwillingly, the cum of a guy I am not even interested in.
It has been forced into my mouth, but I don’t say anything.
My standards have lowered.
Is it problematic to have standards? I don’t know.
My type of guy is way out of my league,
because my body type doesn’t cut it for them.
I am, as they call it, the cunt for everyone,
even for the bored-of-girls-want-something-tighter cis straights to use,
whether I like it or not.
Love is out of the window; I have lost hope.
The fear of not having a future together
unless you can afford to flee to another country.
I might be able to, someday, if I am still alive till then.

I touch the knife, lightly running my finger along the edge.
It’s sharp enough.
I can do it, really.
No one will miss me;
the neighbour boy or my disappointed parents.
The peeps who use my cunt will find another the next day.
My friends will hopefully understand.
I am tired, and I want to go to sleep, and experience my body like I used to.
But I know, even after I am gone,
my body is death’s best friend,
constructed by cuss words and disappointment and fear,
the template of the queer body.

Cover Image: Photo by Jason Schjerven on Unsplash