To The Laws of Physics And The Chemistry Between Us.

You know what I love about kissing her?

When she kisses me back.

When we’re pausing to catch our breaths,

And she looks at me,

As if she were in a trance.

She looks content.

Hypnotized,

Like a snake to a tune.

 

I love the feeling of her lips,

Smooth as the surface of milk,

It reminds me of home.

I love that she looks at me,

Like I’m the on she wants,

Like she too has found home in me,

Even though,

I am perhaps the worst kiss she’s had.

 

I love how tender she is with her love.

Her kisses aren’t desperate,

Forceful,

Gasping as if I were the oxygen she needed.

No,

It was more than that.

It was like she had gotten that ice cream she craved,

Every summer noon,

Satiating her need to balance the heat from the outside.

How typically like us,

Opposites attract indeed.

 

I love that ven though she knows,

I’m terrible at kissing,

And I’m babbling through,

Questions about if I’m doing it right.

She laughs to herself,

Asking me to shut up,

Pulling me in again.

Or that when we decide to give it a rest,

And are almost out the door,

She turns back only to let loose this sultry smile,

Pulling me in yet again,

And did I mention, kissing is not my forte?

But she didn’t complain, and did it all right.

 

She is the right to a wrong,

The angel to the devil,

We’re two contradictions,

In a big world of polarities,

Yet, we too mold ourselves to the laws of physics.

Opposites attract, indeed.

 

I am grateful to the laws of physics,

and the chemistry between us,

Pulling us,

Binding us,

millions, maybe trillions of atoms,

And hey, maybe even Biology,

For creating a relationship between us.

Surely, I can say,

From empirical research,

Opposites attract, indeed.

 

Voice

Yes I have a big voice,

No I’m not proud.

I’m a five year old girl.

Mumma told me not to speak,

Pappa told me, no true woman is loud.

Grandma told me,

“It isn’t lady-like.”

I didn’t understand.

 

Yes I have a big voice,

No I’m not proud.

I’m a ten year old girl.

My whole school shushed me.

“I got excited, I’m sorry!”

But it didn’t save me,

From being the embarrassment.

 

Yes I have a big voice,

No I’m not proud.

I’m a fifteen year old girl,

Too scared to speak a word.

Maybe I’d be too loud,

Be the embarrassment I’m afraid of being.

I got so quiet,

I don’t have a friend around.

 

Yes, I have a big voice

No, I don’t care.

I’m an eighteen year old girl,

And I’ve learned,

A woman with a big voice?

I’m not the only one.

We’re fighters,

We aren’t unique.

I won’t shut up,

I’ve found people who don’t mind.

 

This big voice,

I use it for all the right causes,

So don’t you tell me to shut up.

Yes I have a big voice,

And yes,

I’m proud.

 

The Danger of A Single Story

“How old are you?”, the older woman asked.

“Ten”, said the scraggy girl.

“Ah! Little children won’t get it.”

Dear older woman,

That ten year old girl,

Works at the restaurant near your house,

Cleaning bathroom stalls,

Dealing with men objectifying her,

She’s seen more than you have,

On your vacations funded by ‘daddy.’

Is age but just a number?

 

“You’re lucky you’re fair,

Your skin tone’s great!”

All that aside,

She was called ‘yellow’,

For her relatively small eyes,

But she was Indian too.

Is she not human,

Her looks put aside?

 

“Africa this, Africa that”

Does one fail to realize that Africa,

Is a continent,

With fifty-four different countries,

The people patriotic,

But wanting to be recognized,

As something more,

Than just an African.

 

Dear boy who supports the queer,

Quite ironic you say so,

When ten minutes ago,

You used a homophobic slur,

And called someone gay,

For not being a stereotypical boy.

Does going against the stereotype,

And being oneself make you gay?

Perhaps if you meant ‘gay’ to be ‘happy’,

Then you’re absolutely correct.

 

Her dresses were baggy,

And maybe terribly long,

But did they consider,

Her having an oppressive father,

Where all she wanted to do,

Was cover the marks,

She was willing to forget.

The galaxies on her skin,

Caused by havoc and not pleasure?

 

‘Slut’, this one was called.

They didn’t understand that,

All those times,

She was an innocent girl,

A hopeless romantic,

Too trusting for her own good,

But was taken advantage of.

Suddenly, saying ‘no’ meant,

Trying harder and being forceful.

Suddenly, ‘No’ meant,

She was asking for it.

 

They saw the hijab,

A quick judgment made.

‘Terrorist’, she was labeled.

Funny how four letters,

I,S,I,S,

Ruined the reputation of one religion ,

When in actuality,

The people of that very religion,

Fear and are against that very organization,

Defaming their innocent faith.

 

Stereotypes,

They’re nothing but a single story unexplained.