Note: I have always struggled to grapple with the idea of shame that I associate with loving someone. Especially the honour killing, the suicide attempt of a mother to stop her daughter from defiling the honour of her family, and other creative acts, have always made me scared, shameful, frustrated about the passion I have for love and its intricacies. This writing is just a morsel of an epiphany I discovered about myself. And it’s close to my heart. Hope you like this.
Sometimes,
The times I want to be kind to myself,
I rarely do.
Because I could see the shrug of a bearded man in the road, looking at me.
The contempt of a friend as she judges while she listens.
Even though not all times, I have jumped at every chance, but not offline, to say what I love is, ‘LOVE’
But I am careful,
Careful of not showing how much,
Because I know,
I don’t know-how,
But I know that it’s something that people consider shameful for a woman to be admitting that she enjoys the pure art of being in love.
And also because I believe that when others,
The next person,
Knows me,
Knows the tenderness of me,
I would be labelled that I am just this.
That they could see that I am nothing more.
And every other word I speak and philosophy red note of mine would just be a joke.
Feature Image Is For Representational Purposes Only