The goddess inside me is living and breathing. I don’t control her. She controls me.

She battles my fear and apprehensions. She turns me into a screaming banshee to a sultry manipulator. Men are playthings to her. She sees them as instruments of procreation and loveless creatures.

She is wild and free spirited, a ragged thorny rose bush, sweet smelling and deceptive at the same moment.

Her sigh is thought and pre planned. Intake of breathe and lowering her eyes to please and betray.

She teases and taunts men using my body as a vehicle of dynamic motion. A stutter and soft whisper are heavy with intention.

I know she’ll make me kill for love. I know she has absolute and complete control over my emotions and heat beat. I’ve learnt over time and over every injustice to control her and her madness.

She is happy and unforgiving, her laughter comes out in giggles and tears, and the more I stop her, the louder the cracks on my face become.

Her dreams are big and all consuming. She dreams for me and everyone around me. She is trusting and free.

She is tired of poised hands and crossed legs , I can feel her pushing against my insides , ready and coiled to burst out and run wild and free. Run without inhibition and laugh without a thought of the tears that come after.

She hurts easily, I can feel her sadness gushing and pushing through my chest and eyes when she is met with my resistance, when I stop her from living. When I continue my existence my lifeless muted existence.

A fierce mother is the only role she readies herself for; all other cloaks and skins are flammable and perishable. I can feel her stirring and scratching me on the inside for an offspring, as I crush her spirit with my doubts and insecurities. No man is good enough. Never will be. She knows that, but stirs me to mate. Making love is for the delusional. Love is never made, it is given and taken. Love is timeless. The best looking should suffice; I hear her whisper as she caresses me and softly pushes my chest forward and lips into a pout. We’ll make up for everything else. Her reach in every inch of me stirs an ache only another was meant to quench.

She wants to shock and entertain. She wants to serve and sustain. She wants a balance while fighting structure and normality. And I have learnt to shut her up.

Without her, I imagine a slow preparation for eventual blackness of death. A dismal nothingness, a void that is perpetually empty.

I know she stirs and keeps me awake. She is as fierce and terrible as images of kali, there are no in between steps, there is the beginning and the end . She is hovering over the second before complete and total annihilation. I love the thrill of her living breathing and monstrous soul inside me. I know I am not a lost cause when I feel her anger shift slowly and terribly into chaos. As she surveys the destruction before her, I know her warmth and familiar excitement at the sliver of dawn she imagines she sees.

The goddess inside me is devious, nurturing, manipulative and self sacrificing all in one breathe. She is impatient, ruthless and beautiful. I am her , she is me.

Photo by Manyu Varma on Unsplash

To crib

To crib

One billion bloody Indians on youtube.

One billion bloody Indians on youtube.