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
Available internationally
