My body is a temple,
and you knew that so you left your shoes outside.
You walked in barefoot, and I thought you were being
vulnerable, because we leave our deceptions behind
temple gates, right? You skimmed my walls with your fingers
with every parikrama that you took around the deity
that was my soul, as if the inscriptions imbibed in them
since the beginning of time, made any sense to you.
You chanted mantras which resonated through all
parts of me, weaving, braiding through the ringing of bells.
They say that the vibrations of these shlokas make the air
around pious, and I thought you were only distilling purity in me
with your condescending voice, as if I were a mere room
and you were what made me a temple. You touched your head
to the ground, before me and I could feel the hot and the human in it
seep into me; your forehead was semi permeable and it let all
its arrogance, and anger, and selfishness filter through to me, until I brimmed
of all things unholy. And then you looked right at me as if you had never
poked another soul until it oozed out all emotion with
the same brown, unapologetic eyes, as if shame, even just an ounce of it,
was prohibited to be vested in you. The chants and the ringing
was slowing down and the lull was getting louder and louder,
until silence vibrated violently through every room of me.
You joined your hands one last time, and I could see my innocence
choking from between them,
and then you left.
I knew it when you left your shoes outside
that you aren’t here to stay,
but my body is a temple –
it is open for all, I cannot shut out only those