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Woman
Woman
and this is how a rebellion begins: at midnight.
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Rushati Mukherjee
the first stroke feels like the first touch of a lover’s kiss; the coolness against the skin drags;
no pain: only a sense of cleansed, limpid bliss.
the black appears slowly, white, naked, fresh the darkness peeled apart chop by chop gently, lovingly:
the pink is revealed, glistening ruby-red, hidden in the flesh like
a bride in some Naidu song, large eyes behind gauze curtains, half-shy on the wedding day -
holy, translucent, inviting.
18 Yours Truly
the curls wash away with a damp cloth and soap carefully, carefully not to slice the paper thin
skin
and it blooms.
i am nine years old meeting myself in the mirror: the folds i had not dared to touch since they first grew and bled
i am a woman i am born at last.
and this is how a rebellion begins: in the depths of a wild night while cities burn, i gaze into the mirror, sitting, legs spread apart, timid-tender as a babe and now a queen.
unclothed unblemished unflinching
beloved.
19 Chaicopy | Vol. III | Issue I