Six am the stench of alcohol under six years old your trench coat black and filthy beside me the drumming of your heartbeat, air caught in your nose I crawl sleepless from my bed and watch the birds outside, instead Photograph & poem: © Kristiana Reed 2019 https://soundcloud.com/user-798168065-197387209/when-the-partys-over
We sung hymns in assembly but we weren’t a Christian school. There was a church down the road but it was too modern, too sterile and even though I knew the girl whose father lead the services there, we never talked about faith or the afterlife; unless it was a lesson on Hinduism and we … Continue reading Churchgoing
Small and feral. Green knees and knotty hair, Nanny’s little devil; bumbling without a care along the concrete stones with mossy edges and busy ant homes. How she longed to be feather light, paper transparent and magical within and without. To blink and merge with vivid climbers scaling varnished heights. Her tissue paper skin grazed … Continue reading The Fairy Garden
After failing to heed my therapist’s advice not to open them all at once, I stopped. I cleared away the mess ‘Friendship’, ‘Love’ and ‘Work’ had made and left ‘Childhood’ on the table. It stayed like that for days; like a baby elephant in the room with all of the gold edges becoming unstuck. A … Continue reading Four Boxes: Childhood
It has been years since we met, decades since we last touched each other's lives with a smile. Time has been cruel, convincing me you were never there at all. A figment of a twelve year old imagination; lonely amongst the bookshelves and films, fixated on wheat fields and sunsets. You were beautiful … Continue reading Ghost Boy
I used to believe in abracadabra magic; white rabbits from hats, ribbons from shirt sleeves, coins from behind my ear, children’s party make believe; dragons and princesses, tall towers and treehouses, and the way the wind blows whispers when you are small and slight with dreams dripping on your brow and in the crooks of … Continue reading Whirligig
I don’t want to leave. I want to keep on walking, past every beach hut until the sun sets. Then find myself at the harbour chippy, queue for ten minutes before eating my chips, while I swing my legs sitting on a wooden anchor far too small for me. Ten more minutes and I’ll be … Continue reading Brightlingsea
The storybooks say you should have been the wind in my sails, not the drunken sailor weighing anchor in the middle of the ocean. Perhaps I should have believed in you more, blinked away tears to hold you in a blue gaze, bright eyed naivety and wonder - not cold heart mutiny. Except this mate … Continue reading Mutiny
I’ve been asking for love since my hands were smaller, and my eyes were wider. love isn’t what you wanted, instead you were disappointed in anything other - than the complicit retelling of a childhood, of fractured bones, of a ‘happy’ home. © Kristiana Reed 2018 Image credit.
They sat me down on a red couch with cracks so wide my knuckles could nestle. A throne - fit for a king with no home or two homes one there and one here where nothing felt, or smelt the same. ____________________________ WP #7: throne Link your response in the comments below. Image … Continue reading Throne (Weekly Prompt #7)
