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The Holy Women of her denial

Manjit Banerjee

There is something in her, that doesn't like denial
 the nonchalance and the acceptance of it.  

She likes Susanna’s lips and the words she mouths
not the scent of her body, nor the soul either
the roundness of her thoughts
her irregular unusual but blatant monologue
gives her a sense of being
she is the scent that she can and does wear everyday
but she does not like that self which makes her speak
She loves when she speaks to him wearing that red lipstick;

She likes the soul of Joanna, but not the toned flesh
the purity and the chastity of the soul
but not the skin cover that shrouds it
on long lazy evenings she loves her craving for her existence
gives her a sense of promiscuity
over long calls and clattered discussions
but she does not like that self which makes her speak
She loves when she speaks over the phone wearing that blue liner;

She loves the long nails of Mary
It lingers on her lusty soul at the fag end of the night
like the last golden drag of the cigarette
She does not like waking up naked with her
the shreds of dead skins in relationship with her painted nails 
reminds her of the stench of her tired instantiate lust
it harrows, hunts her during those solitary nights
she loves when she lies by her wearing that black nail colour;

She hates the balance of denial with which she lives every day;
the hollowness of denial and the fulfilment of it.  

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     
     
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