Come Clean Before You Come

I don’t know who needs to hear this,

but if you’re looking for a traditional woman,
then be a man who doesn’t smell like hypocrisy.

Not the kind who dips his fingers in holy water
and in women
with the same hand.

Not the kind who kneels on prayer rugs
then climbs into beds he was never invited to in spirit.
Not the kind who says,
"She’s not wife material,"
after sucking the marrow from her joy
and leaving her soul stretched out like a carcass.

You want a traditional woman?
But you leave trails like a dog in heat.
You mouth prayers
while spitting into the same women you damn.
You zip up your pants
just in time for Jummah.
You cross yourself after coming.

I’ve seen Muslim men
who post hadiths about modesty,
then stare holes into women on the street
like they’re starving
and every curve is meat.
You want a halal girl,
but you chase haram
with the hunger of a wolf
who’s never fasted a day in his life.

There are 1.9 billion Muslims.
One-point-nine billion.
But still, you come to non-Muslim women
like colonizers—
plundering the unfamiliar
then claiming moral high ground
on the way back to your mother’s living room.

I’ve seen Christian boys
slip purity rings off like condoms.
They tell you God has a plan,
then unzip theirs.
They pray for forgiveness
before they even fuck you—
just in case.

And the Zoroastrian men—
clean white sedreh,
lies tucked neatly under it.
They come to women they’d never marry,
press their lips like priests
while rutting like beasts.
Then they wipe their hands
and say,
"My family wouldn’t approve."

You knew that.
You knew.
When your tongue was in my mouth,
you knew.
When your fingers explored what you’d later shame,
you knew.

You want fire?
Then burn with me.
Don’t light me up
just to run from the smoke.

And the worst part?
The worst?
You walk among us like saints.
You serve chai to your elders,
host charity drives,
post Eid selfies,
and volunteer to sweep the mandir floor.
You smell like rose water,
but your soul reeks.

You want a virgin?
Then be one.
You want a clean woman?
Then come clean.
You want modesty?
Then learn to close your eyes.

Don’t touch tradition
if all you’ll do
is finger it in the dark
and curse it in daylight.

Because I am not your spiritual souvenir.
I am not your rebellion in lipstick.
I am not your experiment in impurity.

I am the funeral of your hypocrisy.
And the altar of your judgment.
I am the aftertaste
you can’t wash out.

Don’t come to my fire
if you fear the heat.
Because this flame?
It remembers.