urges burried

Roots in soil, and fire in skin,
Tangled deep, both caged within.
The earth holds tight, so still, so sound —
But this urge? It shakes the underground.

Soft whispers curl like vines at night,
Fingers of want brushing out of sight.
A plea for touch, a quiet moan,
But silence wraps it — skin to bone.

I won't disturb your steady grace,
Won't beg for room, won't claim a space.
But oh — the pulse that floods my veins,
Like monsoon heat behind windowpanes.

These roots — they hold, they choke, they feed,
But don't they feel this silent need?
To bloom beyond what they were told,
To ache in ways too raw, too bold?

The tree above stands proud and tall,
Bathed in light, admired by all.
But underground, where no eyes pry,
I writhe, I breathe, I wonder why.

Why must my longing stay so tame?
Why does desire come with shame?
Why does this body burn so loud —
Yet taught to hide beneath the shroud?

I'm made of petals, sweat, and storm,
Of hunger dressed in proper form.
Of cracked restraint, of sweet unrest,
Of wanting more, and giving less.

So here I stay — with roots grown deep,
And cravings I don't dare to keep.
Still smiling like I've made my peace…
But darling, this calm? It's just my leash.

Padmaja Mazumder