By Harshika Hundal
It’s not something I want,
It’s something I seek.
A desire that can’t be fulfilled by society’s
twisted vision
of what women are meant to be.
My hands lay tied,
metal clinging to my wrists,
wetted by beads of fear.
I inhale the toxins—
the rage,
the anger—
the forbidden sense of self
pulling me back to reality.
A string pulls my heart out,
calling the name of my lover,
forgetting that he’s dead.
Masculinity no longer revolves around pillars of strength.
Its wasted pleasures surround each pussy with desire—
no regret.
Forgive me, my Lord.
Your prayers arrive suspiciously slow,
each word tangled in ropes pulling from below.
Strangled,
six feet beneath soil.
Dignity and integrity just blurred lines.
If I was ever told the mind was powerful,
my heart stayed powerless—
confused and broken,
waiting for the tick-tock of time to end.
But the metal clinging around my wrists tightens,
clogging each blood vessel—
still blood red.
Those,
are the lores of the law,
where predators prey on six-year-olds
like she’s Barbie
and they’re the functioning flaws of Ken.