There’s this fleeting feeling,
It comes and goes.
Do I run towards it or away
I do not know.
This desire is like her dare,
Leaves no winner, no loser.
Either I’m hers, wrapped by her love
Or I’m nowhere.
Poets and writers, give me power
To style her the way you’d do,
Fair words, hypnotic verses
Not an objective left unused.
She’s rage, she spreads like wildfire
Like a big storm, waiting for a bit
A mess; not so nice, pure or polite
She’s art, if art could be sin.
Do I love her or worship her,
Where does one begin, other end?
Is she the biggest heartbreak
Waiting to happen?
First and Multidimensional Queer Women’s Collective of Bangladesh