Let The Insanity In

By Ankita Dwivedi

A black spot in the garden of disguised roses,

giving a part of her spirit to strangers,

a debt that shall never be repaid.

It's not something she chooses.

From the first blow of wind to the last snowflake,

her skin is a bewitching land of virtue that has no boundaries nor limits.

But can paper ever be a forfeit for love?

A blessed feather that falls on you from above?

The aroma of her brown hair will rush to your treacherous mind and find itself a room.

Her breasts a divine place of worship.

Secret folds of warm flesh,

a temptation to every inhibition you've ever known.

Would you hold yourself or let the insanity in?

Would you let the Luminous mist cover every mark of your existence?

And then you can't breathe, does holding your breath send chills down your spine?

So hold your breath, don't breathe and find yourself struggling from within.

Would you dare to smile or put on an act?

This is what it's like to be her.

But why does she let this happen to herself? Her misery is prisoner to her will.

kept in a box someone else created

She is holding her breath exasperated.

She goes from Street to Street,

her dress barely covering her behind.

The small Mirrors in her dress can light up your eyes, casting the shadow behind. Shadow on her.

She is covered in shadows.

Don't let the insecurity in her eyes stale the petals of lust.

Don't ask her name first, it's no use anyway. It's not real, just like her smile.

Her identity is subject to perceptions not strong enough to stand on its own.

Call her sweetheart, babe or love

or just don't watch your tone.

The marks on her thighs, a proof of how easy it is for her to make someone lose control.

By playing a role or just a wink.

Or some cable ties and kink.

She shouts in her perfect voice, "ride boy ride".

Yes, ride boy ride.

Ride her with all your manhood, watch it shrinking by her side.

Ride her with all your strength and watch that power melting beneath her eyes.

She is a piece of art gone wrong.

A hard blow of a ceaseless Storm.

A fallen ray from the twilight Sky.

Selling her body for clothes, selling her smile for tears.

Burning by a match you light so her daughter's stomach won't burn.

She opens her legs every time you look at her to hold what you can't anymore.

You are a pilgrim, she is a goddess.

Or maybe you are just a monster and she is a lamb, more than willing to be slaughtered.

Torn apart, from limb to limb.

She is selling her identity for survival.

But ask her name next time, her real name so we don't have to call her 'she'.

She is someone's sister, daughter, mother or wife.

She is drenched in vex .

She uses a tool called sex to counter strike the plight of almighty by selling her womanhood.

The parts he designed.

Afterall she is a woman and he, a man .

By Ankita Dwivedi