Cruising Alone

  You teach us the divinity of temple grounds, The sacredness past the mortal bounds. You explain how "Pran Pratishta" is done in those stone moulds, And how it feels closer to the divine home. Yet you often forget this body is my temple too, My soul lives between these skin and bones too. You go to war if they disintegrate or ruin it, And energy released is painful. Then why do you say I am dramatic? Who will fight my war? I never said I am God, But am I not a creation of that divine thought? Then why can't I weep for how they touched me with their lust? Why am I called names for my rightful outbursts? You teach me in detail about the sacred grounds, But forget that I am as much a part of it. You love adorning them with flowers and jewels, When I put on makeup and adorn myself with silver and gold, Why must it be seen as vanity, not a reflection of my soul? You bow down in temples and ask for abundance, But hurt my very soul. The others might have looted this land and ma...

  You crave a woman's touch, You crave a lover's skin brush, Yet you never adore or respect her, All you do is lust over her. You lecture on love, As though you understand its depth, But you disrespect her very existence, Then pretend you know its breadth. You call it a genuine connection, But it's just a disguise for your desire, Hiding behind words, masking the truth, A hunger that only feeds your fire. You speak of need and long for her grace, But what you want is to take, Not to cherish or honour, Just a feast to partake. You don’t see her as a woman to adore, Only a prize to be won, And in the end, you're the one to destroy, What could’ve been, what should have been spun. You pretend to be “the nice guy,” But you’ll never treat her right, You want her to be your conquest, Not your equal in the light. So stop calling it love, Stop calling it connection, When you only see her as a reflection Of your animalistic obsession.

  Boys like you do not like it When the script is flipped on you. A woman who leaves is always A “whore” or a “bitch”—but never the truth. You asked about me? What did they tell you? That I was “always” a “self-serving narcissist”? Is that really the truth, or just a distorted view? I did ask about you, though, People called you “bin painde ka lota,” And if you stood alone in an election, Even then, they’d press NOTA. So, you honestly feel that you hurt my ego? You could’ve rejected me like a man, But no, you did it like a coward, With a sly smile and the words, “Oh, you can’t handle rejection?” How sad is that? You affected my health—HEALTH— And still cried about “dust allergy,” But your ego needed more—how pathetically true. Ohh, I did understand that intimacy is important between a woman and man, And I told you I was molested, but you did not ask me if I was alright or would I be ok? No, you simply said you have needs and blow job is a deal breaker, But guys like you call women ...

  I never understand it, Why people are so afraid of letting me shine, As if I stole something from them and made it mine. They’d rather have me stay small, Than proudly cheer when I stand tall. I’ve seen this on repeat, Ever since I was born, As if I took something of theirs, Snatched it and made my throne. People won’t tell me things— What if I win? As if I was forcefully put in this skin. I’ve rarely seen people truly appreciate me at all, Yet I’ve seen them try to pull me down in a group, But one-on-one, they’re trying to win my affection, And then label me with duplicitous intentions. They may be sad if I die, But often make sure I never fully thrive. So, I go on and hide, Enjoying all my sides.

  Would you like to explore societal norms, gender expectations, Or personal struggles against limiting beliefs? I’ll tell you one thing, but you better listen— I won’t let you define me, not even for a second. The body you lusted for is a body I hated being born in. And you laugh, saying you "hurt my ego" and "hit me below the belt." Did I harass you? Are you going to talk about equality and respect with me? Have you ever respected anyone for simply existing? No, you have not. Because every time, it's: "What do you have to offer? Your 'fayada'?" Or "Why should I come to you? What do you even have?" If that is the case, then I had no fat on my chest as a kid too, But that still did not stop a man. Or when I was simply walking down the street, And a man groped me between my thighs in broad daylight. And you still think I wanted your money? That you would be good for my image? You, who crave money, power, and status, So a policeman does...

  Go ahead, flaunt the size of your wallet, I was never in it for your pocket, Because I don’t “phasao a man” nor view them as a “catch.” Ah, the false notion you have— That you were the one who brought me down to my knees, As if I was hopelessly in love with you. If only you could comprehend what was really beneath the surface. It wasn’t about losing myself in you, But in losing my purpose. If you think it was all for you, Let me make it crystal clear: I wanted to burn my skin off, To rid myself of the stench of what you think you touched. This was never about your age, race, or face. It was about the rhythm of your aura, And how your energy consumed mine, Pulled me into its pace, Until I could no longer remember my own. You mistook my confusion for submission, But what you didn’t see was the storm raging within. Your power was nothing more than an illusion, An empty shell that I once thought I needed. But now, I see through it— And realize my worth was never tied to your validati...

  When you have his baby, Always remember how he paraded your "sexy" body, Like you were his goddamn property. But I stood up for you, Even without knowing your story. Because that man has no spine, He’d brag about how he made me whine, How he dimmed my shine, Puffed up with pride, Claiming he’s the only one touched by the divine. He’d mock my belief in something deeper, Sneer at my refusal to measure worth in the shallow, Calling me irrational, Just because I wouldn’t rate people along the hollow. But I see you, Caught in his games, A pawn for his claims, And I hope one day you’ll know— That I spoke for you, Because I saw what he’d do. Not for pity, not for revenge, But because I’ve learned to stand tall in this storm. And while he’ll claim divine favour, The truth is simple— He never even deserved a glimpse of your form. So when you cradle that baby, Knowing this truth I softly hum: You were meant for love, But maybe, Not with this one.