Woman and this is how a rebellion begins: at midnight.
Rushati Mukherjee
the first stroke feels like the first touch of a lover’s kiss; the coolness against the skin drags; no pain: only a sense of cleansed, limpid bliss. the black appears slowly, white, naked, fresh the darkness peeled apart chop by chop gently, lovingly: the pink is revealed, glistening ruby-red, hidden in the flesh like a bride in some Naidu song, large eyes behind gauze curtains, half-shy on the wedding day holy, translucent, inviting. 18
Yours Truly
