You said you saw what I showed.
So I laid out a full deck of cards —
all trembling hearts.
I didn’t know hearts were never
a sure way to win this game of love.
How would I?
It was the first time I felt
the tide of love — its rise, its crash.

I didn’t want a mere drop.
I wanted the whole ocean.
Like the little girl who wants
to ride every wave,
leaping from crest to crest,
losing herself in the water,
giving herself over
so the ocean could fling her high
and catch her on its back,
her hands thrown up in glee.

But I never wanted you to see the clubs —
the black-turned-blue scars
on my inner thighs.
Would you have liked to see those?
The fingers that chase me in my sleep,
the pain that wakes me
with a groan knotted between my legs,
the sudden panic I try to stifle.
Would you have wanted to hear that?

The dark horses ran wild
when the girl did not yet know
the table of three,
when her breasts had not yet formed.

Nor did I want you to see the spades
I keep beneath my pillow each night —
my guard, my shield,
lest anyone but you
touch me in my dreams.

My body would revolt,
sweat and scream.
I pretended until pretending
began to feel like dying.

I was obedient once,
not knowing otherwise—

But you changed the game.
You were the first touch my body
didn’t flinch away from.
The first warmth it trusted
enough to loosen its knots
and let love flow without fear.

And now that you say you have had your drop,
my body stumbles, unsure
how to fold itself back
into the old, quiet shell
it once hid inside
before you touched it awake.

I did not want you to see the diamonds either.
My first pair was given by my mother —
the woman I wish could be
the Maa I longed for:
warm, soft,
someone who saw the child
she had brought into this world.

That fourth-grade girl saved every paisa
from her birthdays
to buy her mother a comb,
a rubber band, a clip,
wrapped carefully
in pink paper with white flowers —
only to be met
with the coldness of a diamond.

I loved her.
I love her still, every night.
I wish she knew
I never stopped hoping
she would love me back —
not out of duty,
not out of name,
but the way the ocean loves the shore:
without being asked,
without being earned.

But tell me —
if I lay the whole deck before you,
every suit, every wound,
every salt-soaked memory,
would you stay?

Would you hold the girl
who kept gathering oceans
in her cupped hands,
hoping someone
would call her enough?

Would you touch the tears
I’ve buried so deep
they have tides of their own?

Or would you fold your cards,
quietly,
like everyone else
who saw too much of me?

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