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.

 

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Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020

Between the Trees UK

Between the Trees US

Image by enriquelopezgarre from Pixabay