Kaveesha Coswatte
Who’s going to want you with all you’ve done?
I wonder what crimes I’ve committed other than love the way I felt.
Is it really my fault that I’ve loved those who were unworthy?
Does my potency as a wife depreciate if I do not stain his sheets,
His unfaithful sheets, that have moulded themselves around so many lovers before me?
Will it not suffice that I shall bleed all over a white tiled hospice, birthing his legacy?
Will my screams of pain to give him compensation for my corruption finally relieve me of my sins, then?
Who would want you now?
The matriarch bristles, eyes of disdain,
Upon a daughter, accomplished yet impure.
“I hope you find yourself a man who would still accept you”,
Pray he finds you worthy,
Because my value is lower than a rupee against the dollar: always pitch the defined Weak against the self-appointed Powerful.
“Pray a man finds me worthy”,
I’m a piece of acquired taste at an auction displayed amidst a room full of holy phalli,
Buy not all that I am, but to choose which one impales me,
Discounted price because you won’t be the first.
Love and woman both lost.
Who would love you now?
Hopefully not a murderous pirate of the patriarchy,
At his hands,
my hopes, my dreams, my ambitions,
My guardians, slaughtered;
whilst looking for gold between my folds,
Me: reduced.
Hopefully, someone who sees roles oppressive, self progressive, not in the least aggressive, never repressive.
Well, If he doesn’t exist,
Then I’ll close my legs
Change your maps
Burn your ships
Cut up your whips
Colour my lips;
And I’ll love me.
Your white sheets be damned.
