My Body on the Page

By Nafisha Zafar

Desire isn’t polite. It doesn’t knock. It breaks in, barefoot and loud, and asks me if I’m still pretending. I was taught to keep my knees closed, my mouth soft, my words smaller than my hunger. But I am tired of disguises. My body is not a locked drawer. My skin remembers every touch I was told to forget, every ache I was asked to bury.

I don’t want writing that hides behind metaphors polished to death. I want sentences that pulse. I want truth that tastes like salt and iron, messy and wet. I want to write desire the way it actually feels—uneven, trembling, sometimes ugly, always alive.

So here it is. My body on the page. My hunger without apology. My words refusing to look away.