Drew a quick portrait of a brown girl wearing her monobrow quite proudly. Or rather…subtly throwing shade towards people whose bs opinions should be shut down. 

While I don’t have a monobrow, I am one of the perhaps few among the brown womyn populations who chooses not to thread/wax/ shape her eyebrows. This does not mean I look down on people who do choose to shape their eyebrows. It’s more so that it disappoints me that as hairy brown girls, often times the older women in our lives didn’t even give us a choice. Or hearing comments such as “you would look pretty” if you weren’t so hairy. My mother used to put turmeric paste all over our baby-bodies because she heard it would make us less hairy. 

I think about my mother who doesn’t mind the eyebrow thing ( mine tend to fade into my dark skin), but she does always try to police my ladystache. Which I am come to embrace.  Of course she will say anything such as saying I have no hygiene or I’m being disgusting (malayalam can sound harsh).

Also I lament how white-washed Indian films industries are becoming, especially in terms of their beauty standards. I don’t watch that many films, but my heart dies a but when I realize that Kajol isn’t staring in movies like she used to. Or generally have actresses who aren’t pale, thin, upper caste, former beauty queens and “well” groomed.

It’s the type of thing that makes one wish they could direct Indian movies.

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she, through glass

This one hurt to write, but I like the way it turned out.
Would mean a lot if you listened.
Thanks, guys.  ❤️

It’s so easy.

It’s too easy,
to romanticize what’s far away,
but if we lived in the same place
would I still dream about your face
and offer you unearned grace,
like holy water blessed by a wayward priest?
I’m drawn to your mystery
like a monk to his knees,
but will I still adore you
after I explore you,
comb the whole world for you
and then turn down your heat?

Because my own desire makes me terrified.
I’m second-guessing myself because I’m scared
that I
could hop on a plane
and tap on your window,
but I don’t know
if I want to come in, though.
Because this rosé glass gives me a rosé pass
to see you through roses,
paint paintings at mass—
but hey:

You ever wonder,
why is glass called beautiful
only when it’s stained?

Any other time, it’s invisible,
just an object in my way,
but when it’s hung in a church
the congregation stops to pray?
Okay.

Are you the same way?
A lackluster fairytale, a wind-torn mainsail,
a foundation of clay?
I want to believe in you
like I believe in apparitions,
like Evangelicals believe in their optimistic mission,
and I’m feeling this heat
but is it passion or fission?,
because it’s getting me down
like you’re at me with derision—
quick revision
while you’ve got my head spinning.
Maybe
we could make it work
if we just stopped pretending…

But I’ve never loved anyone
so I don’t know how it feels.
It’s like a puzzling court case,
call up Ally McBeal,
and to unlock your layers,
I’ll need to key and then peel—
but the Bible says don’t steal.
So I can’t take your heart.

And the Bible says no idols,
so I can’t make you art.

The Bible says do right
but I don’t know what’s left.

You know the only unforgiven sins
are the ones unconfessed.