At the age of 14, when my friends huddled up to tell each other stories
Of previous nights and coming long drives,
Secretly wishing for the one I liked to like me,
My mother asked me if I liked boys.
I did. And I told her.
She gasped a little
Then let me go.
At the age of 18, I was in a railway station when I saw her
In a sari, decked up.
With flowers in her hair and I felt something.
Attraction? Nothing mild about it.
I was attracted to her, her voice, the calm with which she looked at me.
She moved on, person to person
Doing what she has been doing for so long
I wished she blessed me a little longer.
I wished it lingered over my cheeks.
She was gone before I could ask her anything
But I asked me.
Do I like her?
I did. I told me.
My station was here.
At the age of 22, my heart took me to bed.
In my state of confusion,
Of loving so many people,
I hoped I loved them like I did the others.
They held my heart down along with my body
And I gave in to this ravenous, hungry love.
They asked me if I loved them.
I told them.
In them, I found my every day.
But I’ll always know, I’d love everyone else too.