Mamalogue - 101

Poetry, Sep '14
By owais

Mother,

I cannot be

like your other sons:

those that live

to consume.

To desire,

to conquer. 

To want,

to get. 

To top,

to orgasm.

I am like you, Mother.

I serve.

I give.

I love.

I guess,

I am not a man. 

Am I a woman?

Or, am I

a tree?

I claim

that I am like you. 

Yet, unlike you

all my life, I have wanted.

Desired.

Aspired. Fancied. Thirsted.

Craved. Wished. Asked. Begged. Itched. Yearned.

Hankered. Hungered. Coveted.

Lusted.

Always.

But, like you,

I have never been wanted.

Like you,

always called ‘dirt’.

Or, if I was wanted,

like you,

never acknowledged,

never accepted,

never rejoiced

in being wanted.

If I were a man,

I was really an impotent one.

If I were a woman,

I was really a sterile one.

If I were a tree,

I was really an unproductive one.

Even,

for myself.

No, Mother,

I am not like you.

I am NOTHING like you.

I am a fool, an idiot

that served, yet never

did it with pride:

despite being one that

assuredly

made men come,

and women explode.

One that did it all,

yet never said,

to my partner in my room, my life, my heart

with my actions,

nor with my words;

not even, with my thoughts: that

I am a slut.

A hussy. A harlot. A whore. 

And I CHOOSE

to make you happy.

owais calls himself the ‘sucker for love’ – for knowingly, he not only trusts, but lives on that rainbow which does not actually exist.