Boys who refuse to be men.

I do not share a good opinion of men. Actually, boys who are not yet ready to be men. Of men who are fierce in every masculine way but struggle their way to bed with socks undone as if the stink has a purpose to serve, to teach a lesson which is basically to tell your woman, to woman up. 

I have often sat there, on my knees, in front of an emotionally wounded man who has always wanted that somehow my breasts could milk so that he could suckle to them like he did to his mother. And, when I went completely berserk he would ask my opinion on how to adore the fire, the lightning of a sun that could rise right there in the heart of the city. At 2 am we discussed how to satiate his ego just like his whims & fancies could command.

Then came the men for whom I did a lot of charity work, selling everything my body could betray, my soul could taint, but they never thought it worthy to pay a penny back. I again went mad and told them as much loud I could get, that my body repulses to your actions. That your actions do not speak louder than your words. That I cry myself to death, that if I could I would cut your phallic symbol off and watch you bleed but the poor souls did not know any better as they had penises for their two eyes. 

Anyway, it is all about the time. When I got to know that it is I who am to be blamed for the woundedness I select, it is I who cannot sit still in front of a clear mirror, it is I who do not care enough to cake my skin well but have this constant urge to break the mirror for all its clear-sightedness, it is I who have already chosen the wrongs yet again. 

The nights do not seem to have any sense of control, they are crazy for what they are worth and when the days do not fare any better, there is no one to put the blame on. So, quite frequently broken-ness found his favorite haunt to have at least something. My side of story says (because I do not know his as he was dumb. His tongue could not utter, his tongue only knew how to intertwine with mine. I feel sorry for him, they pulled it out of his throat and he laid his hands in the air and let them do it.) that I would think for hours, for days without a blink if he would survive, if that hole in his heart could somehow be fixed. I still think though not as much, how would that be if screwdrivers were not peer-reviewed as cool instruments? If cooler tools like these felt some genuine kind of satisfaction for their employment in fucking the dogs? I quote, for my survival he needs to be declared dead, or my life gets suicided and he lives.

Until one day under the influence of alcohol, my moral corruption faltered and I failed to distinguish between the white lies and black truths. And, he, for the man he is, had dozens of allegations regarding my untrustworthiness. The balls have to be in his court, literally as well figuratively and perchance I win the game, pardon, not for my honest capabilities but for my cheerleading skills they would say, he would blatantly declare a complete amnesia for the time we had together. He knew as he knows that I am fragile as a lily, still he would continue to pluck it because that is what he knows best, that is how he can prove himself to be the best among all the mating generation ahead of him. Not that he had any true propensity regarding this matter, as far as I know, ( what he knows I do not know because disclosure spoils the game they say. Hence, am unable to take the benefit of doubt altogether.) still it is a matter of choice as it always is, more for the man than for the woman that it is gratifying to see her linger at his door. She would not enter because she is hesitant, he would not dare open because he enjoys the power. It is indeed a tantalizing narrative to watch grief, to pour the kohl-rimmed tears over someone's belongings when the belongings he would say are so belittled that almost every woman he visits have it in one form or the other. 

The days are passing by, and I am growing tired of concealing the shenanigans of my amours, drifting back and forth between the arms of one man to the other. I have started forgetting, I have started murdering my sense of justice because the arms feel no different than the branches of an old Banyan tree where a dead body limply hangs. And, I know I would be praised as a lioness if I say that I have crossed from beneath it, in the middle of a stormy night and his cold toes where no blood run anymore fell just half an inch shorter of touching my head. Since then I have been thinking of mourning forever with my shaved head but simultaneously I do not think it would become of me to be what I dread, a widow, one of my doubles.

On some afternoons when life is found crawling, there are men who would beat the heat with me, because they have nothing silly to do and for a man it has to be something silly or it rather be nothing at all. But, lest you forget they are equally shrewd to take advantage of your naivete. And, most importantly at times when you especially want to forget the dog-eat-dog world, they would hand you over a dead bone and ask you to lick it. No, you cannot choose to stop or else you are gagged. Though, it doesn't happen the other way round because when you question their choices they would already be long gone awkwardly out of sight. 

I have been oftentimes asked to see people as humans in all their respective tastes and distastes and trust me I am quite of a suffragette for this loyal cause but certainly if my taste palate turns bitter, am I not to revolt? Ask me and I would tell you, I choke at the sight of this insurmountable hurt that runs viscous in my veins. Ask me and I would tell you, my lips do not shiver, do not shudder, to kiss corpses because I have kissed more alive dead bodies than the dead ones. Ask me and I would tell you, the lifeless lives demand nothing less than pity. And, there is nothing less within me but pity. I pity them with all that my heart can possibly muster. Ask me and I would tell you, I am waiting to be proven wrong with my hands in the air, defenseless, until boys prove themselves to be men.