Pishachini

Lying on the floor
Wounded, naked and numb
You called me
A slut
A bitch
A whore
And a cunt
Asked me to play by your rules
Or fuck back off to where I came from.

Close on the heels of the chase
You smirk, “Too easy a prey!”
Go ahead, my dear
Deem me a slut,
Shame me as much as you want
My choices and associations
Are none of your desire.
My life—I own it
Write it and live it.

Does my direct gaze dent your pride?
Does my loud voice rattle your core?
“Too opinionated!”, you cry.
I’d rather be a bitch
And stir a revolution
Than keep my gaze,
My tone down
Coz’ down is where doormats belong
Not me, not any of my sisters.

Don’t you dare brandish me a whore,
Nip me in the bud
Dim my shine
Or force me to cater to your calling.
For like a rose that blooms,
My curves will freely roam
And sway rapturously in the air
To the heart’s fullest desire.

My cunt’s not a curse
To thwart its life inside the cocooned womb
My cunt’s not the cross
To exorcise me
Out of my maternal and marital home
My cunt’s a fountain of hope for humankind
Let it flow naturally
Bleed equitably
Breaking glasses, ceilings, and ill-fate.

Call me
A slut
A bitch
A whore
A cunt
I’m all of this
And so much more
A Pishachini aroused
From the sacred Puja ashes.

*Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash