You made me fall in love.

You held me tight at night in the name of warmth. You kissed my forehead in the name of affection. You bit my neck in the name of lust. You tore my favorite dress, held me against a wall and made me scream. I’ve scratched your back. You’ve dug your nails into my thighs. You told me sex is pure. Sex is magic. You pulled a few magic tricks. I believed you.

I stretched my legs for you. I opened up my soul; my bare damaged soul. You held it and kissed it. You called it beautiful. You teased it and caressed it. I wanted you to hold it forever. I gave you my heart and I needed you to give me yours. That is when you held my head, looked into my eyes and you let me go.


You walked away.

When I cried, you carefully took the tear off my cheek and made me make a wish on it. I wished this would never end. I wished you’d never ask for your heart back. You never did.

How could I have been so stupid to believe that when I held your heart, I was the only one? You gave your all with everyone you were with. You gave each and every single one your heart to hold, like a currency between commoners. I forgot to tell you, but when you gave me your heart to hold, I stored it away in a chest that could never open again.

Now look at you, walking around with my broken heart. Does it do you well? Do you love as passionately as you did before? Do you still push them to the wall like you did with me? Do you have the strength to lift them up? Can you still perform your magic tricks? Do you feel the warmth of their skin? Does it make your heart tingle or do you feel it start leak?

Can you afford to give anyone your heart to hold again? Are you not scared that someone could break it?

How do you feel when you know I have your strong, lustful heart in my chest? Do you miss it? It beats so deep. It beats with a purpose – a need to be quenched. It makes me stronger. It makes me tougher. It makes me lust.

Look at me. I dance graciously in the crowd with your heart in my chest. I see you standing there looking at me. My sari moves around like the wind of your home island. Do you remember when you held my hand at the edge of the cliff and promised me the world? Life takes over my body. Don’t smile. It’s not for you.

Look at that old man playing the tabla. He gave his heart to his instrument and in turn he created magic. Now listen to him. He sings with his heart. Listen to the chubby man teasing the sitar. Listen to the strings possess your limbs. Do you see their voice turn me on? You know this face. It’s the face you tore my dress to. It’s the face you told me you couldn’t stop thinking about.

Look at the way his old hands hit the brown leather on the tabla. Look at those fingers dance on the leather in perfect synchrony. Look at the palm of his hand create its own bass. Smile. Look at his content. I dance to his happiness. I celebrate the sound of hearts in perfect harmony.

You will never have this. I have your heart. You will have to come back to me for you to ever feel true love, until then, I will dance in my sari on the busy streets of Nairobi. I will let my long black hair fly around with the scent of Amla oil dancing around. I will let my beauty transcend. I will let it color these darkened streets. I will be in perfect harmony with the man.

You look at this Indian woman you once loved. You will call me crazy. That is okay. You are crazy too because you can’t tear your eyes away from my hips swaying. I can see your thirst – you want to place your hands on them. Ha Ha. You can’t. Swallow your saliva slowly.

I know you will never be happy. Not with me dancing like this. I do not need a flame around me to be beautiful. The flame rises and dances from within. The flame protects me and quenches my lust. The flame will burn you if you try to come close to me.

Look at all these faces of strangers in the streets. They are hypnotized by my dancing. They are in awe of my beauty and confidence but still cheer. They still whisper about the crazy Indian bandits creating song and dance on the streets, but they do not protest too loudly. All the compliments that kiss my ears, the cheering that holds my waist is not what I want. I want to go back to you holding my tear on your finger as you smile at me, telling me you’d always be there to take them away. I want you to kiss my cheek again. I want to fall in love again. I even have a new dress for you to tear.

Look at what you’ve done to me. I cannot love anyone else. I cannot open this chest to tear out your heart and put in someone else’s. Look at what you’ve done. You have robbed me.

I want to feel your breath on my neck and your arms holding me down on the bed. I want our bodies to make music like this man with his sitar. I want to be hypnotized by our music. I want others to dance to our music. I will always hold your heart. I will always protect your heart. In fact you should stop considering it yours.

That heart you carry is weak. It’s too frail to be touched. You should protect it more. Once it goes you will have nothing. You can’t grow another heart. You can’t buy one off the streets. And you will not find someone to give you theirs if you have nothing to give in turn.

I see you stare at my dress and hair turn in the streets. Admire this beauty. Look at the power your heart has given me. Look, you poor silly man.

You walk away as I stop dancing and thank the crowd as they cheer. You’re not happy for me. I see you.

Don’t do it. Don’t go. I will dance again tomorrow. The man will still beat his tabla. His brother will still caress his sitar. The wind will still blow and this heart will still beat. I will still be beauty that transcends these earthly bounds.

You shouldn’t have made me fall in love. You should have never torn my favorite dress.



One thought on “MY FAVORITE DRESS

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