you do not know.

i move from room to room.
every morning.
moistening my eyes.
sucking in my belly.
pruning my fingers in juice of mango.
weathering my history on my forehead.

the women in me want different things.

breathing with my hair.
rubbing honey cinnamon and
shine of the moon on the inside of my lips
for all the loves i never knew.

matching my curves with the water.
feeling my cheeks set fire to buildings
that run taller than my own.
massaging my throat swollen with
words growing root in it.
bruising my legs on the dinner table
because that is where he last brought blood on me.

the women in me want different things.

—–

Meryem Nuh breathes in her square of space in Pune, India. Her skin is colorful, like her tongue, and will turn 20 years wise in October. When she is not writing, she is talking to her stuffed panda Oliver and telling him how much she loves him, reading poetry and feeling waves of fernweh overwhelm her. She posts actively on http://www.instagram.com/nuh.meryem.