There are nights I dress as if the room is watching.

There are nights I get dressed for no one. I pick the hijab that holds my shape the closest. I wrap it slow, like someone might come. Then I sit by the window with one leg out. The anklet keeps moving around my ankle. I don’t stop it, I don’t touch myself either, I just sit. It stays between my thighs, like it belongs there. I don’t try to name it now. I feel it under the hijab, right where no one has ever reached.