I sat and rhythmically squeezed a smiling, yellow rubber-ball and watched my blood, as dark as shiraz, inflate the flat canvas of a plastic bag.
I was at the Kilasch hospital in Godrej, India on a field trip to study sustainable practices in a small village. We were given a tour of the hospital which was designed with sustainability in mind. When we arrived at the lobotomy lab, our tour guide, Pranav, told us that the hospital was dangerously low on blood donations.
“So, this isn’t just going to be drunken sex if we keep going.” She said. She did not want to think about the consequences of having “sober-sex.” Sober-sex means sex with clarity, sex with intention and without excuse. To blame this, or our little affair, on alcohol is one thing, but to blame it on feelings is something else.
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Sometimes I catch myself daydreaming or star gazing
Looking up into the universe, trying to comprehend
Ideals like love, passion, humanity and where I fit in the mosaic portrait of life.
But that’s what it’s like for me being a poet.
My birth was your love letter to life.
I haven’t been able to fully read the language of your DNA
So I often times find myself crossing your T’s your and dotting your eyes with my own tears pregnant with your guilt and
Finishing sentences that you left as fragments for me to figure out and complete on my own.
And Sometimes I want to write back to you and say, “I miss you and I need you.”