I wear my words on the tip of my tongue. Test me,and I will blow up on the tips of your fingers,like the flavour of the mustard seeds in your Tuesday afternoon ileesh maacher Torkari . Like the manner of a starving man having his last taste of ambrosia,I drink up my lies until I believe them. Lick the tips of this dystopian fantasyland, laugh at my own words till I fumble. The man from my dreams laughs with me,and i mistake it for him making fun of me again. make up some assumptions.
Now let him wind his sun-kissed skin around the spaces in your teeth,let him smile his way into your soul till you have no choice but to fall in love with the color of his eyes underneath the beautiful skies of bengal. Dance with him at the edge of this cliff,drench his fingers in milk and honey and and payesh and the milky scent of kheer
This is my culture this is where I start this is where I will begin and end how fucking dare you tell me to forget where I came from now watch me turn my aggression into love and kiss you senseless,fingertips tapping on my waist like the body of an 86' trombone
And he tastes like the stardust of self righteousness and aristocratic validation I've been shoving down my throat to calm the constant waves of self loathe I feel have madetheir home inside my lungs I feel your fingers around my neck and shoulders and the dying girl in my dreams looks back at me and OH MY GOD THE DYING GIRL IS ME
I fall,again.
