Mother

Motherhood has always been one of my most revered dreams.

Just because I was not born as a woman, (or a woman-born-woman, as the radical feminist term goes) this would probably confuse or mystify or even shock some people to understand this strange craving. To be pregnant or to even visualize myself as a mother (or any other individual, who was not genetically born with a womb or as a 'woman') subverts the set norms of medical and culture history, its shunned as 'immoral' and even 'disgusting' "strange' and strings of other such bullshit but of course it does not bother even ONE bit in painting my heart out. I did a similar sketch sometime back, which is on this blog, called MOTHER and this painting comes several months after that. I am wiser, more blue like the watercolors and also, hungrier than ever before. The above art work is watercolors and mixed media (a style that I absolutely love and personally relate a lot with. I am also a mixed media, kitschy thing you know). Having a life, breathing inside someone, curling toes, winking lashes in your womb- I have never gotten over the visceral intensity of this. How insane is this. How beautiful is this and as a transwoman, a woman, I have always imagined something like this for me. And I know this sounds cliched, but really, a woman is so powerful and not only because she can create a life inside her, but even around her with such effortless grace. To all the beautiful woman, love and much more of it:)

Maybe this also comes from overly-hyped stereotype that to be a woman, one has to bear a child and for decades this has been a major tool of discrimination held against transwomen (and even gays and lesbians, for not procreating. Yes?). But this is not about trans politics and feminism. There are other places to discuss that.

This is for me.

There are my dreams. This is my world. My passion and night colours.

Ruler of my heart

The ruler of my heart is only swallowed through music
And gentle, incandescent stares through the candles at night.
He won’t kiss you, won’t steer his legs up your sheet, won’t wonder how many more nights this will happen.
He will torture your impatient soul, until it bleeds.
That’s love too. The bloody kind.

I am answering you.

So here I come with my heart lumped in sleeves, bleeding words for you
To be read. I don’t always need your hands to touch me; your verbal wisps are enough.
They are withered, creamy faces of that haunting longing…that drums in ecstasy.
That stretches like a boiling wound from Himalayas to the seas,
Lap up in arms and flows down like a maddening tune…
That choirs up with the songs of the streets and the air that frisks between your lids.
I will give up everything to let you hear me once. Or the seamless fragrance of an official sorrow, that sits between my thumbs and stares at the notepads. Steals moonlit roads and the street lights to be blazed in an endless spool of your dreams. I am in those dreams too, whirling right next to you.
Where I shock and scare and spit and swoon.
This is all because, I love so much.