I found my girl,
I found my girl wearing burqa.
Not the real garment, but the one that we cannot see.
It was black;
So black that I could not even see her scars.
It was difficult to see, but was not that difficult to feel.
When I started drawing myself into her body I felt something,
My chalk stopped while passing from the lacerations of her.
That was the first time I felt her body
She was beautiful
She hid her body;
Because she thought she was drowned in the drought,
Because she thinks the fools who themselves never got accepted in the society were not going to accept her.
It was uneasy for her to open the black cloths.
She was raped, she was denounced.
But she wasn’t buried, she was there in front of me, alive and beautiful.
Dieing to get loved,
Wanting someone to come and read her without letting her speak anything.
Every bride wants to get tattooed on her wedding ocasion but she just wanted to get married with the right person and remove her fake permanent tattoos.
The place where people are marrying their money to someone’s virginity, I knew someone would have to get up and struggle for the good.
Why everything has became so conditional.
Why people and relationships are so conditional.
Who knows what is perfect and why should we know the meaning of perfect.
Imperfection is not the scars, but the cloths that hide that.
Perfection is not the virginity, but the eyes that spurn that.