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Aditi Gajbhiye Poem
A mother to you, a son to me, sucking the life out of my bosom and weep in disgust when it's saggy.
Men love a tempting hole to fit in,
to dissolve seeds of bliss and then chymic wring
it barren of faith.
They carve open doors in me and call it a home.
women love a alchemist man , fixing her a hermetic bleed till she droughts.
We kneel before charlatans , praying they will turn our bruises into ivory pearls.
He smelts my body into his furnace, a vessel
he tempers but never treasures.
For she does a lore gathering, his awe vanishes
when he recoils like a cannon when her
lapis tears turns into rusty black.
My sapphire veins curdle into iron,
my tears tarnish like oxidised silver.
When will I be granted to love, be loved?
Is there a surgical routine to remove my own famine?
Am I not feminine enough? do i howl like a wolf at your moon?
My womb houses a cemetery of his desires,
for his devotion buries in it and never traces my pulse.
Sculpted me into a marble and chipped me down
to dust.
My glory resides only between my tendrils, a catacomb where his footsteps echo in my hollow halls.
I was promised milk and honey, but my lips taste only rust when your touch mine.
He is my man and i am his it,
carves obedience into my ribs but my spine grew sharper.
for i am his cherry pulp and womb a fire pit, i birth rage not blissful seeds.
Licking a man's bones , chewing it till his marrow
to know where does his audacity comes from.
I am his jumbo carcass, a roadkill
scorning at my exploited scathed ivory tusks.
The Alchemist is gone, the furnace is cold
and I remain, a ruin of what was never gold.
Copyright © Aditi Gajbhiye | Year Posted 2025
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