Don’t get me wrong,
My fight is not with that woman, I am just a different kind of woman.
It's ironic that we were just talking about borders in class that day. Invisible borders. The rope was a physical manifestation of the border between the crowd of men and women, and me, a person who was neither.
Meena put her lip gloss on. Litchis filled the air.
Both of them, thinking the same, of how fruits beg to be plucked.
The symphonic rhythms of her breath etched into my being,
I look up at her face as she gently presses her lips on mine.
I’m sorry, but who are you Mr. Khurrana and team to tell anyone that they are "incomplete"?
What if I could not celebrate 6th September publicly,
What if I could not join the Pride march,
What if I was not the torch bearer,
What if I was not the path clearer,
That doesn't make me more or less important.
No, obviously, all I am being is suggestive with this thrilling list of goods that you can get to spice things up this Pride season!
It is words strung together
trying to make sense
of what I want to tell you
and what I need you to understand.
He says things to me, he does things to me.
Shh, don’t tell them, we’ll be embarrassed.
Two loveless souls trying to fill each other’s voids.
We make love, and tame those devils.
Animals we were, but don’t you see that this is our way of love?
when i joke and ask her/ what if i was in love with a girl,/ it is not a joke either.
You are the object.
She comes and asks me who I am
Asks me to grip harder.
When the moon is unreachable
I push myself into the breachable
Her eyes feel my insides and suddenly
I am nobody.
You fumble and drop sentences, your leg trembles and beats a staccato rhythm on the pavement while she patiently hears out your half-complete, constantly backtracking stories, nods and keeps brushing her hair back.
Intersex people spend a lot of their lives doing this emotional labor for others because they are inherently responsible to be born an error.
Sadat’s book is a heartfelt coming-of-age story of a young boy who not only has to deal with the struggles of being gay in a conservative society but also has to survive war, starvation and intense loss while doing so.
Artwork by acrylicelephant
I hate that I wallow
That I bury my face into my hands
Slam the door behind me
And cry all day
I hate that my diary …
she's a habit. an 8 am class that I take, a 5 pm phone call that I make, my best/worst muse.
This is a story of a girl who falls in love with an ethereal being who literally tears out her heart.
This question took me back all those years ago and I vividly saw her pushing some kid out of the way to crouch down in front of the place he was about to step on.
When I joined the course, I was excited to share my experiences with the class. But with time I realised not everyone was interested. Most of them didn't interact with me, asked questions, or exchange their experiences.
Hindi Poem by Shubhshree Mathur.