September and I’m twenty.
I’ve phoned my mum, 100 miles away,
because I’m frightened I’ll die.
My hands feel suspicious and I cannot trust
my reflection, so tying myself
to a Promethean rock seems the only option.
I should be living in technicolour –
I should be living with joy
bursting between fingers and thumbs,
I should feel a thumping in my chest and trust it.
I should be living in technicolour
not child-like fear.
I should be stealing fire in knowledge
of punishment not offering myself
up to the Gods desiring it for a sin
which in reality is the quiet voice of a little girl
crying out for anyone who will listen.
Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020