What is love?
What is love, really—
a figment of hope
sharp enough to shatter
centuries of lived patriarchy?
To think
education could make a dent
in what’s already carved
in bone & name.
To think
a stranger could be chosen
over the familial veins of caste, of home
over the womb of belief one never questioned.
Perhaps what’s
whispered in secret
was always meant to be hidden—
buried, before it flowers into regret.
Does it even matter—
your thoughts,
these societal norms, yourself?
whether you’re religious, or not?
What really makes one unique,
when the future already beholds
what always has been,
and what will be?
Destiny.
to think one is different—
to think everyone
is just the same.
To think
all that ever transpired
got fizzled on a random night
that never belonged to me.
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