1.

Stop looking at me

Shakespeare,

I’m not writing sonnets but

I’m being bolder than you,

my Mercutio is gay and my

Portia is an F2M transgender.

Antonio is a sugar daddy and Bassanio,

his twink.

But maybe, just maybe I’m

not like you Shakespeare, not

clever enough to hide

my limp wrist.

2.

The way you hunger to hear words

trickle out of people’s mouths

and hope they string into a story.

The way you look

at patches of red, peacock blue

and pink and know who

can wear it.

The way you tilt your head

to the right so we can’t see

your crooked jaw,

but the most

tender thing about you

besides your lips is you

will cry when you hear

about a ganja-smoking man who

writes with a blue Reynold’s on the walls

and paints swoosh marks on un-nike shoes.

3.

Richmond Town never has traffic jams except

during Moharram.

The diverted trucks from Hosur Road heavy

with ash granite blocks and holey white sacks

of sand will clog the streets and their horns

will sound like ten thousand kindergartens – this is

how my body felt when it whispered,

‘I love you’.

4.

I have always wanted to be

left-handed,

the left-handed can draw.

Then, I wouldn’t have to

write you little notes, a plum

could’ve meant sex, an avocado

would mean shopping and peaches

pain.

But I think I’ll just write because

we live in a city, not an orchard.

The poem below was written after hearing this def jam poetry session on Youtube, by Frenchie Fucking Ain’t Conscious. She uses these stereotypical black images and apologizes for them because she won’t be using them in her rendition. Well, I do no such thing except repeat the phrase, I apologize. But since that refrain was inspired I am giving credit where credit is due.

5. I apologize.

I apologize,

in this poem you will not

see red, warm blood oozing

from slit wrists because

my lover has left me.

I apologize,

in this poem you will not

see blue, clear tears slipping

down stung cheeks because

my lover has not returned.

I apologize,

in this poem you will not

see white, uncrumpled sheets pouring

down stocky beds because

my lover has stopped coming.

I apologize,

because in this poem you will see

red, warm blood spouting from

lips bitten till they are raw.

I apologize,

because in this poem you will see

blue, clear tears slipping from

the confusion of is pain really pleasure?

I apologize,

because in this poem you will see

white, uncrumpled sheets pouring

because the wall is our bed.

I apologize, in this poem you will see

me waiting because the

line between colour and pain is

drawn in dashes across a map.