Perversion (Edited)

The lust for wounded identity
makes me wonder if
religion, colour, relation, character
are mere certificates validating
perverted curiosities.
Should there be freedom to stare,
to speak whichever way we like?
Foreign appearances are especially fetishised.
Sexual violence and discrimination are especially televised.
No, we are not mere objects of lust.
Definitely, there is more to this than that.
Idealism doesn't have to be narrowed down to
personality types, domination and slavery.
If self-improvement isn’t love, what is love?
My perverse imagination is averse to violence.
My conscience understands consent
in the idle game of rivalry
championed by perverted, corrupted, violent men.
For when the streets stretch deserted,
when glass shatters against the wall,
who is to blame if not us all? 
The rickshaw puller, the neighbour, shop-keeper
co-worker? Is the object of sex pleasure,
or is it to inflict pain?

I was never perfect and never will be.
I never belonged to anyone,
perhaps not even to my parents;
they know how to let go of me.
How can I belong with my good wife?
How will I abstain from my perversions? 
How will I live in my world of fantasy?
I learnt to lose my innocence at an early age
before I learnt how to be a child.

I was laughed at and turned away.
My eyes have sunk and darkened, 
with pools of tears
that overflow when I am alone.
But I will not take off this mask of bravery
till I am home. So, be kind.
I do not need a people's movement. 
I need you to wear this mask that heroes wear. 
I need you to understand 
that I have always finished last,
and I am used to it.

Perversion does not know what it looks like 
staring at a child’s frock. Perversion is sick.
How is it that freedom and fearlessness 
are among things to be oppressed in society?
I do not understand.
But that is my fault. 
I will grow up to be an indecent man. 
It is okay for me to stare if I am curious.
I am not a man.
Surely, to be a man must mean something else. 
Why didn’t I learn anything good?
You taught me to be better than this.
Why can’t I ever raise my voice at injustice?
Why am I so damn brittle and timid? Goddamnit!
Will I ever learn the holy art of confrontation?
Am I to suffer further still to become a better man than this?
Must I only suffer? Mustn't I seek the pleasure of your company?
Sometimes,
I fear I am growing schizophrenic.
I wish I could see the bright side of life,
and not let its burdens weigh heavy upon my heart.
Is there hope for someone like me? 
Surely, I must have misunderstood masculinity.
Does perversion think only of sex,
or is it criminal intent? 
I know lust,
for I have felt it.
I know love,
for I have lived it.
Then why did you live in constant fear?
Was it you? Was it me?
Was it the absolute corruption of society?
Was it the death of good politics?
Why don't drunk women parade the streets
and buy men for sex?
Why do sex and violence go well together? 
I disbelieve in love and politics.
Hatred penetrates my mind.
I fear schizophrenia.
I know the trauma,
the shock, 
the guilt, 
the misunderstanding, 
the hesitation,
the loss of innocence 
the abuse 
the ugliness.

We should do something!
Should we remove
the part of the brain
responsible for love and empathy? 
Will that be torture?
Will it be relief from this pain? 
Why aren't we doing something? 
Why does our time stand so fucking still?