My poetry is not for foreplay. It's for after sex.

My poetry is not for foreplay. It's for after sex. When you'll light the Marlboro and move to your side of the bed, my poems will be the breath of fresh air in a room filled with smoke. But do not underestimate me. My poems won't be sweet, gentle or mellow. They will be brazen, brutal and bold. I will present them on a sharply-edged knife. The blood on the knife will be hot. Fresh from the wounds I don't allow to heal. You will take a drag from Marlboro - but served with my sinful words - you will feel as if you've snorted cocaine.

You will not get high, though. You will see the world in a different light. Murky lanes leading to posh hotels, board rooms and high-rise apartment buildings. In one of those aesthetically decorated rooms, you will see a man f*****g someone's life just for a little pleasure. You will see him getting hard on someone's misery. A woman pleasuring herself while watching a wrecked home that she takes all credit for. To watch someone seethe in pain is orgasmic to these people. You will also see - a girl sitting in the corner of one of those rooms with a blank expression on her face - and that is me. With that Marlboro slowly burning between your fingers, for the first time, you'll notice lacerations on my soul. You will look at me in disbelief. You may have gone deep inside me multiple times, but this part of me was far from your reach. There is more to a woman than her body - that moment you will realise it.

After 40 minutes of foreplay and sex, the animal subsides and a man can clearly see. You too will see. In your head, you took Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman to your bed on a rainy July evening. Made love to her smouldering body, laughed and had a sense of ecstasy. After listening to one of my poems, you will realise, it was a Quentin Tarantino movie all along. Gory, pitch-black and achingly haunting. And now even if you will try, you won't be able to make love to me. Because your mind, for a lack of a better word, will be f****d. My poems have that effect. They are better after sex, not before. They unsettle, they create chaos, they cut.

Life has ruined me beyond repair. I tend to do the same with my poems.