Not Your Sex Machine

There are moments when people try to reduce you to something less—less than human, less than deserving of respect. This poem stands as a fierce reminder that boundaries and dignity aren’t negotiable.

Easy, isn’t it, to dismiss my anger—
To call me vile, evil, a temper tantrum’s danger?
But let me ask you, mister,
Would you take it lightly if someone
Spoke of your mother this way?

"Only sex, only sex,"
As if I’m here to fulfil every primal reflex
As if my worth starts and ends in a bed,
As if I exist just to feed your head.

Mature, you say? "It’s just a joke."
Your immaturity leaves me choked.
Would you call it joking around
If the same venom was thrown at someone
You call your own?

And then the mockery:
"Better a hooker, peaceful and free."
If that's your truth, then by all means,
Go sleep with a sex worker,
Because that's her profession—not mine.

She, with dignity, does her work.
But I am no machine, no hired perk.
I am human, with breath, with dreams,
Not your lifeless toy for sexual schemes.

Respect lies in understanding the line—
Between a person and their profession’s design.
If you can’t, then carry your misplaced pride,
For you’ll find no solace in my stride.

Because my body is mine—my choice, my way.
I won’t bend to your whims, not today, not any day.

This poem is not just a declaration of self-worth but a call to respect the autonomy of every person—no matter their gender, profession, or choice. How do you navigate moments where your dignity is tested?

Comments

Game Of Fire and Ice

Hey Mister, Why won't you play a game of Twister? I promise I won't play coy. Won't you love it if I were your only toy? You can be the Lion in the boardroom, Then make me roar in the bedroom. Let's play the game of fire and ice. You bring the sugar, and I get the spice. I am praying by myself these nights, Drowning my moans when the city sleeps tight. We can play the game of Super Sonic, And then have our own race over some gin and tonic. So find me, like an app can find a phone. No, I won't bring out my Medusa and turn you into stone. I have been getting over my fears, Learned to make my tears into spears. You can take me as you like. We can go until we hear the third strike.

Polished Sins

A suit and tie, that polished smile, Covering up sins stacked mile by mile. They flaunt “new love,” someone else’s child— A ready-made story, perfectly styled. They’ve “levelled up,” or so they preach, But on someone’s pain, they made their reach, With vows of loyalty, words so neat, While another’s screams lie beneath their feet. Oh, they “moved on” to brighter skies, Leaving someone broken, with silent cries. They mount new heights, they shout and boast— Scaling peaks on another's haunted ghost. So smile for the camera, flash your pride, Show off the life that you tried to hide. For we know the truth beneath your gleam— A hollow show, a self-made scheme.

Till You Sing

Some would say men went to war for women like you, But I would still choose war if it meant choosing you. You say you write in amorous lines, But I would let you be the woman of my tribe. You had your adventures Under The Buda Moon, But have you been loved past noon? So I can see you shine like a magical flower, In the quiet warmth of the golden hour. The invisible strings pull at my heart Can I do justice to your name? Caress you right, Till you sing like a Carnatic hymn. Inspired by the author of Under The Buda Moon, Veena Rao

Cruising Alone

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