In second grade
I sit next to my best friend in every math class.
We draw on our desks, practice long division
and learn to twist elastic bands into stars
between our fingers.
She is pale-skinned, translucent in the light.
All the mothers agree that she is beautiful.
Mothers, who know things that we don’t
and scrub our knees with lemon rinds.
At lunch, we sit cross-legged in the shade
and share secrets. She teaches me things
that her mother taught her like rose water,
and how it makes you beautiful.
In the evening, I rip out the heads of roses
and carry them home in my damp pockets. I
hold them out to the mirror like an offering.
They start to wilt in my palm.
Under the white bathroom light, I crush the petals
into paste. A small violence, something of a ritual.
It smells of prayers and incense sticks. I imagine
that beauty smells like this. Of roses. Of smoke.
The paste softens with water. I rub it into my skin,
slowly, the way that mothers do. Then I wait.
I climb on my toes to reach the mirror
and I wait for it to happen. but nothing happens.
Nothing happens, except that I reek: of roses.
Of smoke. The smell lingers for days.
Anagha Smrithi is a 25 year old writer living in Bangalore, India. She writes about the body and everyday spaces. Her poetry can be found in Anthropocene, Nether Quarterly, Catharsis Mag, and Delhi Slam Poetry among others. Read her weekly poetry newsletter which can be found here.
