By Gayatri V
Unsaid, Unasked, Untold
By Shom Okami
These days when my mother texts,
“How are you doing?”
I want to say many things.
I want to say I don’t know
How I am.
I want to say I could be better, Ma.
Or talk about the fact that
I went through depression
And immense anxiety.
I want to tell her about
Being a feminist.
I want to tell her about
My queer life.
I want to talk to her about boys
About weddings, about marriage
About having children of my own.
I want to tell her that I miss her;
That I wish they understood
What being gay means;
That I wish they loved me
I want to tell her that
She was my safe place.
I want to ask her
Why she isn’t anymore.
I want to tell her that she is forgiven.
I want us to reset and start.
Instead, I say “I am fine, Ma.
How are Baba and you doing?”
Love Poem 48
This is the forty eighth time I try to express my love for you.
I’m still not sure how to articulate all these words into sentences. When you walk in the room, my heart becomes dyslexic, the bones in my ribcage unwind and lay out in front of me like it’s midnight already. You make my organs pause and sigh with swooning eyes. How am I even supposed to breathe?
When you’re busy pining over the footballer, I try my level best not to fall for you. But how can I not love ripe sunshine on icy winter days, or the way your perfume takes me to Disneyland? How can I deny this longing just because we’re both girls? I did not know terms and conditions applied to love too. I did not know love was sold through genders in markets as rigid as rusted iron beliefs.
My mother, my mother said,
“Oh honey it’s just a phase, we all get confused sometimes”
My father pretended he didn’t hear me.
I’m sorry, did someone teleport me to the 14th century?
Why does my love need approval?
So what if I like a girl?
So what if my heart does not yearn masculinity,
Doesn’t make me any less human, does it?
How is loving you unnatural when it comes so easy?
My heart has always belonged next to yours, and I’m not ashamed of it.
Give me a loudspeaker and I can proclaim my desires to the world.
I shall not hide heaven in hushed I love yous and secret love letters and dark spaces and dingy hotel rooms. No.
I’m gay, just like I’m naughty and shy and sarcastic and proud and sweet.
Doesn’t make me any less lovable, does it?
She is all smiles and frizzy hairstyles
A blue pajama, with bike oil smeared all over.
He is all smirks and messy artworks
A red painting, with colours swirling at the bottom of his spine.
She is my ex. He, maybe my next.
If you ask google what Biromanticism is, it’ll say something like:
A romantic orientation wherein a person is romantically attracted to two genders.
If you ask me what biromanticism is, I’ll say something like:
A bitch. Or a dog. Or maybe both. (Bi, isn’t it?)
It’s both because no, it isn’t bisexuality, and it’s both because my biromanticism is too busy making out (read: serenading)
With demisexuality in a corner.
Demisexuality: A sexual orientation on the asexual side of the spectrum wherein a person might feel sexual attraction only after the formation of a deep emotional bond.
I say, the two don’t make a good couple at all, because
In a world where sex is an identified biological need,
It’s awkward to tell people the first time in the second minute of the third date
That no, I can’t have sex.
In a world where Tinder is creating hookup fairytales,
It’s weird to tell people I am not looking for any fairies or tales.
And looks like google has lost its charm because
“You do have double the dating pool at least”
“Aren’t you just bicurious?”
“Okay so tell me, what goes where”
I don’t have double the dating pool because three fourth of that double
Doesn’t not want sex.
Yes, instead of a plan Anmol and a plan Bharat, I have a plan Anmol and a plan Bhargavi
But did I ever say they materialize?
I am not bicurious because I don’t want to peep
Inside your Jockeys so see how a vagina is different from a penis
I studied that in grade 10 biology.
I don’t know what goes where because honestly, refer to line 10 again please.
Biromantic Demisexuality is a typical example of a thing too cool for this world to understand,
Like Draco Malfoy’s innocence, or Luna Lovegood.
So each time I call you soft or squishy instead of “hot”, please
Redirect your complaints to demisexuality.
And each time I compete with you over the girl in third row center seat,
Redirect your grunts to biromanticism.
“But how can you not want sex?”
Just like I can,
Is it really so difficult to fathom that the only thing I lick
Off from my fingers is Manchurian gravy?
“Your love is indecisively bipolar”
My love isn’t bipolar, your thoughts are just unipolar.
It doesn’t matter who
Because my love isn’t bound by the societal definitions of gender
And I won’t suck it (pun intended) just so I could somehow
Reach up to a sexuality you approve of.
Biromantic Demisexuality is a convenient inconvenience,
Because the only “I love you”
I want is a silent acceptance, and
For you to tell me you can survive on your right (or left) hand.
It is a thing, not my existence
And yet it seems,
I am nothing more than my lack of desire for sex.