Introduction to the Poet:
Sharon Koshy is a Literature Graduate from the University of Madras. She is a prolific writer and voracious reader. She champions the cause of women and feminism through her confessional poetry. She also is an enthusiastic political analyst and critic. Her favourite genres are history and fantasy. She enjoys travelling and singing as well.
Five Blessed Days
Five Days a month my body goes suicidal
My uterus spits blood
She tries to kill me!
I sit stoned and nauseated
By the pain and the rules.
How-to tutorial on
When-my-vagina-goes-bananas!
For Five Glorious Days,
The bitch like pain when you leak
Is the sweetest reality.
The ability of producing a new life
Should be a woman’s highest triumph
Her ever-lasting happiness.
(A smiley or two hooked to the last word)
Steps to follow when you are leaking:
One, Be invisible
Two, Pretend you don’t exist
Three, Act like a universal shame.
Five Blessed days are like Five petals
Of a Beautiful Red flower
A Beautiful Bleeding Blessed Red flower
P.S: You are required for reproduction
For now.
So kindly follow the rusty ground rules!
That’s all folks!
Dear tutorial author,
Brilliant!!
It is definitely a joy to have your muscles
Crushed into a bloody pulp
Every month!
Not to mention being totally cool with
The emotional multi-tasking!
I wonder who else would make
Excellent anger management consultants!
I mean people just happen to piss
A leaking Vagina off, right?
Five Blessed days every month!
Must be a jackpot!
I’m definitely looking forward to it.
Yours sincerely,
Her Vagina.
Oh! And PS:
I give a damn about
Sustaining Human species on earth.
But thanks to the Five Blessed Days
For making me stay stronger and tougher
For teaching me to face my fears
And never give up.
It indeed is Blessed.
And thanks for the sympathy
I will remember to reciprocate the sentiment
When you start menstruating
Some day.
Artful love
I’m sorry, mama, I had to push you away.
That morning when I visited you
I had left my heart elsewhere.
I had lost my eyes and ears to his insanity.
When I got back to my torture cell
Cold blooded ripper stood over my heart
Pieces piled into a sorry heap.
Each piece a reminder of my deleted soul
He pointed at them
And smiled like a child
Innocent and clueless.
Oh mother!
I was addicted to his hysteria.
I picked up the pieces
And froze them overnight
In the coldness of his heart.
His perfect smile shone
Over my dismembered body.
He called it art
The untiring effort of a manipulative three years.
Stones and knives had stopped hurting ages ago.
And then, that one night of insanity
Sam Smith couldn’t have explained more.
He had it all figured out.
The heaviness settling in the pith
The restless search of the eyes
Or the clammed up heart
Scarred by sunlight.
Women are idiots, mama.
Hearts plastered and ready
For dogs and guys, they fall in love with
Just like the both of us.