Dear society,
I don’t hate your son.
It’s just that you painted my room pink while he had a taste for it.
It’s just that I would like you to write me a lullaby, too.
I don’t hate your boy.
Although I played with his monster trucks behind the bedroom door,
don’t worry, my legs were crossed,
and I didn’t make any noise.
He was quiet too,
when his friends bullied him for his skinny legs
in those tiny boxers.
I wondered why the length of my skirts
never matched that of his shorts.
I remember you laughing.
"Big boys don’t cry",
you stamped on his brain.
"Good girls don’t answer back",
you screamed into my face.
We swallowed that
he, with his gentle pride
and I, with my shattered confidence.
I don’t hate your guy.
But the narrative
"boys will be boys"
changed,
when he kissed him.
His face was rose
and so was my vagina.
I felt my orgasm
when I married my bed.
I let loose
but he had a closet to go to.
I don’t hate your man.
Why would I?
He bleeds and sweats for my ‘lady problems’ at work.
His temper is short
but my body understands.
It’s a party, you see
He has a glass half full,
while mine is half empty.
Dear society,
We both need a drink.
Both glasses full
and darling, let the bottle be here.
We’ll deal with this ourselves.
Thank you for your services.
by Ashweriya Anand ( https://www.instagram.com/ashweriyaa/?hl=en )
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