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Art Of Prostitution: Ask Your Reflection

by Bithika Mohanty
Art Of Prostitution: Ask Your Reflection

The beauty and elegance of words are well appreciated but inside every heart remains a dagger, they hide it, store it sharpens it. Once they find a hand that can spell their name correctly, they would use the dagger first to remove the skin from the fingertips, then when they know words can come out from bleeding fingers too, they cut it as well. Slowly the people with daggers will find their wit and will, once the wise men know about it they will prepare their shields, how beautifully they would pour poison in the couture of vanilla syrup in front of you on your birthday you would be so surprised.

I met a wonderful heart once, she was wearing a red saree and she used to come to my house every day. Since childhood, my fingertips were my compass, I don’t know how long the sea is, but all I know is that I am traveling and it is beautiful, because of the islands I see. Once in a while, the lady would come and ask me what is wrong with my skin? My mother would sit quietly and I would move ahead, my room became my safe place but little did we know this was her pouring the poison, a beautiful scent of jasmine into my mind.

That night I stood in front of my mother with a poem of mine, she never saw it, no one did but the poem saw something and decided to guide me. I was taken in front of the mirror, and the aunty bought her cake, the cake was in front of me, aunt asked me to look at the mirror and she asked me what do you see? I replied with a smile, hey it is me, wearing my favorite lipstick. She said no, the cake in front of me was cut into pieces, my favorite lipstick was taken away from me because it was vibrant, and you look like a prostitute.

All I knew was the word, I had no intentions to know the meaning, but I was called a prostitute by the man close to me that night, and then I searched in the dictionary. “Someone who provides sexual pleasure in exchange for money.” I went to my mother and told her, “What is wrong in being a prostitute? What is wrong in being me? And I am not a prostitute?” before I could complete I was slapped. I decided not to speak, but every time I would look at the lipstick the word prostitute would echo in my mind.

Then I could not sit comfortably because the words and voices would tell me I am a prostitute.

I am a prostitute.

When I first bought my next lipstick, aunty was not there but I used it, but I saw her beside me, she took the lipstick and then applied it to my face, “you want to be seen so bad, you want to attract others so badly, you are such a bad woman.” but when I turned around it was my mother having the lipstick, and my face was covered with the hot pink lipstick.

I kept on writing poems, I had no limits in the sea of my imagination I was diving, I discovered all sorts of creatures, but all of them were good.

Once I was writing when aunt’s son came to me and said, do you know I write too? I was happy, “are you a prostitute?” I was kicked on my guts, my tongue was cut. My mother was sitting on the sofa, my father beside her, few people were sitting with daggers, I had all my 10 fingers spread on the table and now I knew what is going to happen. I asked them, can I look at myself for the last time and I came back with all my poems and kept them in front of them. I was expecting my poems to create a tower to protect me, but both of us were way too weak. The daggers entered me and my poems, sonnets alas I could not see my reflection.

And now I know the reason, why my mother does not speak of me in front of her mates, it is because I mastered the art of prostitution.


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Tallerthanpcy July 31, 2021 - 1:19 AM



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