BY RIYA NAGPAL
The hue of 'red' for roses
announces your love and care;
but, the same colour 'hurts'
when you see it on my underwear.
You spoil me with
diamonds and regalia - pitch perfect.
Why not bejewel my existence,
adorn me with respect?
a union until death, a magical escape,
a wreath of vows;
but what about marital rape?
You sexualise my breasts
when I haven't even flowered,
whilst I'm still a seed.
Yet, you detest and repel them,
if a child they feed.
You treasure the 'no-makeup' makeup,
embrace this art of the feminine,
concocted by all colours and tones.
But why no love for all shades of melanin?
First, caress my soul.
Cramps to menopause - honour all my carnal revolutions,
accept the scars and stretches,
for I'm no ordinary fruit of evolution;
I am a woman.