This was my first foray into the  domain of prose poetry, published on Pena Litmag in February, 2025.

The day Baba first spotted me pirouetting in a red saree, with a red bindi screaming from my unwrinkled forehead, my trousers lying forgotten, like rejected love. His furrows bunched, eyes slit, but my gaze never left the reflection of the nubile woman in the mirror.

The scene still plays in my mind on a loop – Thwack! Homo…thwack! Chhakka…thwack!! The rail underbridge became my new home – a melting pot of sweat, semen, and sadism. Shadows of monsters, earlier lurking only in my bedtime stories, now crawled all over me. Groped and mauled me. When did Ma’s lullaby turn into raucous laughter rolling out through paan-stained, libidinous teeth?!

My throat feels parched. A phlegm got my tongue. Each fold of my skin screams a story. Each stretch mark hides a scar. We are destiny’s offal – birthed on a whim, discarded at leisure. The red bindi still blazes on my forehead – it stamps my identity. But now it comes packaged with the music of sharp, resounding claps — the unapologetic orchestra of my being.

P.C.  Denisse Leon on Unsplash