I am in love,

Without you

Infatuated with a thought

Born and raised within fiction

I am in love with a story

As a writer should be


Even roses are cursed,

Imprisoned by thorns

Made out of their own skin

How can we not be?

When our veins run with sin


For these words to rhyme

A part of me must die

My lungs must be filled with poison

My blood with ashes

And my lips with the taste of your skin


When love lives,

Thrives beneath the skin of a woman

Choices are easier to make

Your vision is clearer

Love becomes nothing but a math equation

A calculation of moments, laughter and tears

One I will continue to explore anew

But when the odds are low

I’d rather break my own heart

Than have it broken by you


I smell of you,

Of love,

Lust and doubt

I smell of life,

Evergreen forests and imperfection

Meryem Ouelfatmi is an aspiring writer and a master student majoring in Language, Communication and Society at University Sidi Ben Abdullah, Fez, Morocco.