Your skin tastes like the 15th century, when Christine de Pizan wrote '𝘌𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘶 𝘋𝘪𝘦𝘶 𝘥'𝘈𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳' (Epistle to the God of Love), and became the first woman to take up her pen in defense of her sex. You paused mid-sentence. Quivered a little. And penned down the words that were queued up, like immigrants at the border. You shattered the barbed wires of inequality, for the generations to come. Your skin tastes like 1917, when the Russian Empire collapsed with the death of Czar Nicholas II and established a provisional government. You smoked dried roses, painted your meadows rusty orange and entered your hallway with wine in a glass. Your skin tastes like 1947, when India won its freedom after 200 years of British rule. You had to veil your face in front of your in-laws, but that night, you wore a long skirt and mogras in your hair, and danced to the songs of Helen. Your skin tastes like 1991, when the civil war and fight over diamond control began in Sierra Leone. After 11 years of struggle, you emerged victorious and cried to jazz on that breezy night. '𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰 𝘚𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴' played in the distance, and your heart was on drums, mind was a saxophone, and body was music. Tears didn't exist anymore. Your skin tastes like 2015, when women in Saudi Arabia finally won their rights to vote. You brought women together, in solidarity, and caused tectonic shifts, changing the very design of this world. The sky bled upon you, and it became the ink you wrote history with. Your skin tastes like 2018, when falling in love, in India, wasn't illegal anymore. In the restful lull of that evening, time slowed down, to recite love stories. You borrowed all the brightest shades from the sky and draped yourself in its rainbow, freshly coruscated after rain, and watched the sun setting on your lover's face. Your skin tastes a lot like revolutions; Talking out about your vulnerabilities and desires, And cribbing to your mother each time she calls. ~Aishwarya Roy.