How does it feel like to love and be used? Is it a choice or a compulsion? Writes Sinjini Sengupta in this poem for #RomanticRendezvous.
Here – I lend myself again. Here – I let myself vulnerable. Here – I offer myself to you.
To be used.
You like it; it is the way you wanted it.
I like it too, at first.
I don’t let myself think what comes next.
Because, I know that all too well already.
No, it won’t change.
But then, why’d I stop me from thinking it would, at least this one time?
And then, it comes. As it was always meant to do.
My wounds open, my heart bleed, my lungs feel gripped. I let you rip me off. My inside, my whole.
I break. I split into pieces, tiny and then tinier.
Here, I lose myself. Again.
And then, I see myself – in pieces so futile that no one notices. I can’t recognize myself. In fact, it’s perhaps not even the same me that was. I am not myself, again.
I have lost all my power and all my strength. Worse, I knew it all the time when this was happening to me. Step by step. And even worse, I have known this before. And yet I did let myself.
You don’t turn around to look back at me. Of course.
If you did, you wouldn’t have found me either!
And then, someday, I will float again. In the air, among the space. All around you. I hope to see you be merry. I’ll smile at you, too.
But you’d hardly know.
And then, I will ascend. I will not look back again. Just like you did.
I’ll arise and arise, and rise yet more.
And then, someday, it will drizzle.
And I’ll come upon you. All over again.
I’m sure you’d love the rain. Won’t you?
Oh, I so love to be used!
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