Pink pyjamas

This room holds more

than I care to admit;

more than I can name

or speak of again.

It still smells of your skin,

of childhood innocence

and our pink pyjamas.

It is warm;

electric even

and your breath – in my ear

burns and sizzles

with both fear and ecstasy.

I cannot name you

or what we had.

I daren’t

because of misplaced shame,

their fiery faces and demon

hands, the crucifixes,

and the loss of truth

in my honesty – no longer

mine to keep

and cherish outside

of this room which

breathes oppression

and transgression

from its plastered pores.

Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2019

Between the Trees UK

Between the Trees US

Available internationally

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