She doesn't want to write anything about love.
Everyone has done it. And regretted and shagged over it.
Somebody told her to write about herself
But
She wrote less and drew more of you. There were painted walls to celebrate this love and she whorled her legs in shadows to form savage bosoms to bark back. She would pick papers in the dark and litter his shirt's smell. It strode from beaches and rickety road stalls where she has a part of herself, convulsing into GIF images. She went deeper into sheets, over clouds and moss stung lilies. She found herself rolling over ground and her laughter trickled Vishnu's anklets and he looked below his belly to find her. She danced with you in rains, you remember it well. She bit your man-nipple to make you feel sexy and she hid her's because you had already groped it. Tea spilled over poetry and it simmered into meanings. It boiled into venom and she danced to the history of her own fears. She was ragged into a doll by her mother but she still wore a pink shirt and metal knuckles. Fuck it, woman, she still got it. She won't write about love. Or him. Or you. But doing that all, she will still come back. To love. And there is no exit. From a heart made of caged roses.
(Picture by Anagha Mareesha. Thanks!)
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