I breathe in
the collective disapproval
as I invade their spaces
clad in skinny jeans,
and a Monroe T-shirt.
I can taste
the sharp tongue
of their minds;
eels thrashing around
in the pool of holy verses.
I smell the stench of their rebukes:
“…astagfirulla…”
“…roja romjaner mashe…”
“…bukey kapor de magi…”
and count the movement of
fast-spinning eye-balls.
I can feel
the heat
of their gaze,
the aggression
of their smiles,
the lust
of their morality
branding
my firmly turned back.
The unpublicized rape
of my independence.
