There lie gravitational magnitudes grounded in the fluidity of my speech.
How words slip over intonations, substance, slip over
like hot honey pressed against skin that quivers in discomfort.
I can’t help but glide in these verbal waltzes,
dancing around these political playgrounds,
with polarized politicians gazing.
An invitation for madness, for rebellion.
So mark my words, I will tempt you into my resistance.
I know your voyeuristic fetishes; I know what your eyes try to undress.
Where bed-bound men seek refuge in this harem of boys,
of thick locks, skin-deep secrets,
Doe-eyed, tight flesh of youth.
Propaganda is pornography of the hypocrites.
So mark my words, I will tempt you into my resistance.
Our bodies aren’t battlefields to be won over.
The partition of my lips paves wonders to every punch I can softly muster.
I can’t just let you sit there, debating the legitimacy of my existence.
I can’t just let you profit off of my insecurities, then illegalize me the next day.
I’ve bit back and screamed, and I know what it’s like to be stuffed with silence.
To have the fabric of my oppressors sewn into my skin with teeth.
So mark my words, I will tempt you into my resistance.
My mental nudity causes stir in closeted confessions.
I will not bow down in submission to secrecy.
I will not bow down in submission to succumb.
I will not bow down in submission to surrender.
I am no object of convenience, no surrogate of your patriarchal bullshit.
So when I poison you with the smile of my words, just remember,
I will tempt you into my resistance.
I can never change the people who are so determined to misunderstand me.
I am no outlier, no deviation, no extrapolated statistic for you to toy with.
We are no outliers, no deviations, no extrapolated statistics for you to toy with.
This is no roleplay fantasy of being the oppressor and the oppressed.
So when your fingers ache for my flesh, just remember,
I will tempt you into my resistance.
Don’t point with your right then gut me out with your left.
This invocation of silent seduction will have you in a chokehold.
That’s how this body, this temple-turned-brothel, eloped overnight.
This sensual-turned-sexual fantasy has become mine to manifest.
But his body held promises that were not mine to keep,
for he sought power in places that were not his to own.
Maybe I should’ve just gone home that day.
I’m trying to wash your scent off my skin from two nights before,
but memories have become tangible, inexplicably vivid in their realness.
I’ve won my game wrongly, I suppose.
your ‘getaway’, ‘distraction’, ‘boy drug’.
Don’t you see? This is why my body is politically skin-deep.
You criminalize me by day and then exploit me by night,
validating my presence in society only by hindsight.
So acknowledgement of my worth is deviation,
yet practicing it in secrecy isn’t ‘societal degradation’?
It’s not for you to legitimize this vessel that occupies more than just life,
Don’t tell me how I should advocate my political strife.
Don’t tell me how I should make my space for ‘mutual coexistence. ’
for this was never my final goal,
so I will tempt you with my resistance.