One night stands | Sreedhari Desai

one night stands

i survived on accident
and i grew up with the taste of it:
metallic, smoky,
like burnt masala stuck to the bottom of the pan…
hard to scrape off,
hard to pretend isn’t there.

so yeah…
i learned to accept warmth
from wherever it leaked.

first i tried god.
god was busy.
then i tried good grades.
good grades don’t hold you at 2 a.m.
then i tried being “nice,”
being “easy,”
being the kind of girl
who laughs at the wrong jokes
just to keep people near.

i carried my sister’s old dress
and my mother’s old fear
and my father’s old silence
like three coins in my pocket
i could rub together
and call it a future.

men came and went…
not monsters, mostly,
just hungry and human,
just lonely in the same cheap way i was lonely.
and listen:

i’m not talking about romance
with violins and marriage licenses.
i’m talking about the small mercies…
the motel room light
that doesn’t ask questions,
the night air through a cracked window
like a hand on the back of your neck.

one-night stands…
people spit the phrase out
like it’s a bad habit,
like it’s a stain.

but sometimes it was the only place
i didn’t have to be anybody’s miracle.
sometimes it was the only place
i wasn’t wearing someone else’s history
over my own skin.

one night, a stranger said my name
like it belonged to me.
one night, a mouth on my shoulder
told my body, for a moment,
you’re not a problem to solve.
one night, i was touched
without being measured
for what i cost.

i didn’t fall in love.
i fell into silence
that didn’t feel like punishment.

and in the morning
they’d leave…
buttoning shirts, finding socks,
returning to their lives like trains
that never meant to stop at my station.

but i’d lie there
and feel the imprint of being held
like a bruise that didn’t hurt,
like proof i existed
beyond my mother’s steaming pot,
beyond my sister’s worn-out collars,
beyond the math of scarcity.

i know how it sounds.
i know the sermons.
i know the aunties with their sharp tongues,
their bangles clacking like verdicts.

but survival makes its own religion.
and mine was simple:
if someone can be kind to your body
for even one night,
it counts.

if someone can look at you
like you’re not an unpaid bill,
it counts.

if you can find solace
in the brief, imperfect arms
of a stranger,
while the rest of the world keeps asking
why you’re here…
it counts.

i was an unwanted pregnancy, sure.
i was the hand-me-down kid, sure.
i was the “extra,” the “oops,” the “what now.”

but i’m also the thing that stayed.
the stubborn spark.
the breath that wouldn’t take the hint.

and if love only showed up for me
in rented rooms and borrowed hours,
i won’t apologize.

i’ve spent my whole life
making a home out of what’s left.