first time I put a dress on
no, not a dress shirt!
it had polka dots and flower pots
a ribbon at the back
to accentuate the waist
or cut lunch some slack
The closet was made
Of charming mahogany
Made with the blood
Of a conservative household
Sacrifices of the heartless
She touches you
and it feels like
the comfort of raindrops
singing on a sweltering night
mine felt like the ember of broken dreams.
Nodding to people I am not listening
In front of her, I dream of her
I just know that if I do not take part in dismantling blocks of power that shouts oppression
Then I become one of them too
There is no neutral in the war
People around me feel my heat
From my eyes and from between my thighs
They sense my destitution
Look at their faces sly
At the unexpectedness of my bluntness
And ask me how can I know
About the constantly negotiating
Measurements in your head.
of long-lost diaries
pages spilled with secrets
for me to devour.
You are your own god
The creation and the creator
The one that you need to worship
Know that there's no way someone can claim to love god and not love those who are just right beside them
You may take a woman
Or a man
Or both or none
And the only person who can decide that should be you
Because the only rolls that are really cute are tummy rolls and not these suffocating decaying gender roles
Vikram's collection of poetry is a beautiful intersection of his spiritual, queer, cosmopolitan, and hyphenated identity.
No red, no yellow, no grey,
How do hearts actually beat;
When we say goodbye?
Glass blue eyes
He had the warmest smile,
I adored his mind
Sensitive, unlike mine.
Screams the news,
Of her love letter to her
Where words bared their souls;
While clothed in desire.
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 wonder how you feel right now,
In the arms of another comfort,
In tandem, resonant.
I feel stuck in my skin
This isn't who I am,
And will they ever believe that I'm a woman?
If I'm born a man.
In her eyes you see her story unfold,
With her eyes she stares right into your soul.
Every kiss of yours was touching my soul,
and the butterflies were giggling at our tryst.
I go in
to hear your sing
from between your thighs.
Today, I am not stuck in what you think of me-
This exhausting, endless loop of trans-misogyny
Not broken and what I ought to be