Feed my soul,
Cover my skin,
Save me from the grave I dug for myself.
The dark deep pit,
It's labyrinthine corridors,
My own serpentine silhouette,
Slithers around my neck.
I crave for a single breath.
Air, please.
Feed my body,
Its desires are strange.
Feed my soul
And cover my skin.
Dirt, everywhere.
Is thy soul too stale?
Mercy, please.
Save me from the wounds
Of falling from paradise.
Cover my naked skin.
Save me from the grave
In the pits of inferno,
The grave I dug for myself.
“Are you a lesbian?” A friend of mine once asked me mockingly when we were discussing about my aversion from some (“some” not “all”) kind of men. “No. But does it matter?” I asked her scornfully. No, I wasn’t bothered that I was asked a question about my sexuality. But what I didn’t understand was that is being a lesbian a matter to be jeered about? What if I was one? Wouldn’t I be hurt and embarrassed that my sexuality was just mocked at? Why are the words “gay” or “lesbian” used as slangs? Another incident, that took place a couple of years back, was when I was teasing two girl friends of mine, accusing them of having an affair. I considered it as normal as teasing a guy and a girl. One of them found it so disrespectful that she, instead of simply denying the fact, chided that she isn’t of such “third class” standard. I later discussed the small argument that we had, with her, trying to make my point that being a lesbian or a transgender doesn’t define anyone’s cla...
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