What if I tell you that touch terrifies me,
that you can trace it back to my history?
What if I tell you—right before we proceed—
the terrifying and heart-shattering events of my journey?
Events—freezing me cold and making me shudder
like ghosts in my thoughts even decades later,
what if I tell you that they told me to shut my mouth
and that trusting you is tough to come about?
Now that you want me to open up
what if I tell you that I was told to shut up,
that I trusted another with a lot of effort,
more than can ever appear in anyone’s thoughts,
and he opened up my wound
which was already untended since years
and he promised that he won’t
but did exactly what was the cause for my tears.
What if I tell you that my earliest days
were not as much filled with gay,
that I became mature before age,
that I believe you, too, will use my wounds to manipulate?
You won’t trust or understand me.
You are also a part of patriarchy.
You will laugh when I will be in pain
or won’t even try to understand but will say, “It’s okay.”
You will abuse and hurt me like the others
because why won’t you, if we think for once?
When a few men can’t even respect their sisters,
how can I trust you when you are also a mister?