Poetry

Rules to Appreciate a Sexist Joke

One,

When a funny sexist joke is told, laugh.

Ha. Obviously. Laugh out loud.

Laugh so much

Tears stream down your brown cheeks

Making tracks in the thin, uneven terrain

Of your self-worth

So it solidifies the fact

That you should have no self-worth.

What’s the sense

In the useless sense of self-worth

Some women strut around with anyway?

Two,

Always, and I mean,

ALWAYS Compliment the joke.

And, the one who told the joke.

Surreptitiously slipping

“Women belong in the kitchen”

In a totally unrelated conversation

Takes such clever thinking on a person’s part.

Don’t ever open your mouth

To say a bad word about the beautiful joke.

You don’t want to seem sensitive and intolerant,

Do you? DO YOU?

Three,

Leave your brain cells in a closet.

Without a key.

“Jokes are meant to be taken in a funny way!”

Four,

Don’t try to tell the joke teller

They’re being a sexist asshole.

They WILL question your sensibilities

Because apparently, you didn’t put your brain to see

If it was “worthwhile” doing anything.

And, they WILL reprimand you by asking,

“Wasn’t it simpler just to laugh”.

Five,

Appreciate without question.

Applaud without hesitation.

Laugh without brain function.

And, never ever question them

About how their brain could come up with

Something so pathetically insensitive.

Don’t remind them

They are highly educated people

With the huge responsibility of

Educating the others about equality,

If you aren’t ready to hear the retort

“The highest result of education is tolerance

And you should develop some”.

Don’t tell them you aren’t educated enough

To laugh at the sexist chauvinistic fucking joke.

And, don’t you dare tell them

That every fucking joke,

Any sexist joke,

Is not fucking funny.

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Poetry

THE FAÇADE.

image

Under the façade of sarcasm and insults
Hides an insecure girl who is trying to hide her most recent wounds.
They are fresh, gaping, bleeding.
She hopes nobody would smell the stench of hurt.
She hopes nobody sees through to the bone deep disappointment.

Under the façade of winged eyeliner and smoky eyes
Cowers an ugly girl who hates the curve of her hips and the thick of her thighs.
She hates it so much.
She hopes nobody ever discovers how deep that hate runs.
Her fuck-all attitude is all she has left.

Under the façade of the resting bitch face
Lives a mean cunt who used to burst into laughter at the dumbest of things.
Her laughter was the weirdest sound.
She hopes nobody hears it again.
She doesn’t want to be funnier than the joke anymore.

Under the façade of the rebel
Survives the most difficult shit they ever came across.
Why does she have to make everything so difficult?
Why is she so stubborn?
Why does she never listen?
She hopes nobody discovers she had listened a little too well once upon a time.
She doesn’t want anybody to hear her agreement when it isn’t given, ever again.

She wants to be heard loud and clear when she smacks that asshole with the big no of her rebellion.
She wants to laugh in the face of the rejection of “Boys will be Boys”.
She wants to embrace her curves when they won’t pose a risk of her wanting it.
She wants to accept her dose of pain when she believes her wounds will be scars one day;
When she believes they can heal.

She doesn’t yet.
And if she doesn’t ever, she will be the sarcastic bitch with the fuck-all attitude who can rebel like nobody’s business.
It’s more fun anyway.

-a-

Poetry

She wanted.

imageWanted.Wanted.Wanted.
Wanted.

She sat still on the windowsill
Looking down at the street below.
The mother of 4 juggling the groceries,
The mad man singing about getting killed on Friday,
The vagabond trying to sell rattraps to whoever would look him in the eye,
The giggling girls talking about boys they’ve loved before.
She sat there, staring, and speculating.
She was there. And, yet not.
She was thinking about the time gone by.
She was thinking about the days wasted.
She was thinking about the past that flew by her, unnoticed.
She wanted to live again, and not just exist.
She wanted to take it all in, and not just breathe.
She wanted her life back.
She wanted to live.
She wanted.

-a-

Poetry

Words, always.

She was the kind of girl

Who didn’t blink when you told her

She was pretty.

She was the kind

Who became giddy when you told her

Her words were pretty.

That’s what made her ecstatic.

That’s what made her feel alive.

Words, hers and yours.

Always.

Poetry

7 Years.

7 saal baad kisi ne pucha

“kyun laut-ti thi baar baar?

Apne aatm-sammaan ko bech diya jaise.”

“koi bhaari karz chukaana tha shayad.

Abhi bhi baaki sa lagta hai kuch.”

Crude translation:

Someone asked me after 7 years,

“Why did you go back again and again?

It’s as if you had no self-respect left.”

“I had to pay off a heavy debt, I guess.

I still feel like there’s some more left.”