‘You have always been the place. You are a woman who can build it yourself. You were born to build.’ - Sarah Kay, from her poem The Type. I discovered Sarah Kay from her TED talk and she introduced me to the world of spoken word poetry. I always return to this poem; to remind … Continue reading Born to build (#1)
She wanted to be wanted; to be written about in a 'the world cannot end until I've kissed you' way. Not used like china, porcelain or clay; something to be shattered and shaped, slipped into the fire to bake. © Kristiana Reed 2018 Image credit.
She wondered if the love stories worth hearing only occurred in her daydreams and poetry. She wondered if mankind was too fickle to love her – quick to paint the universe on her cheeks, to map her freckles as if navigating a tempestuous ocean; only to stumble carelessly over the dirty laundry on the floor. Threadbare negligence … Continue reading Vignette of Love #1
Goosebumps are reserved for a hot bath at midnight, when all the world's asleep and silence is dead. A ripple of prickling flesh as toe by toe she enters the water scaldingly perfect and still, the sensation of memory of all baths spent the same way, turning her skin pink in shuddering delight. … Continue reading Pink Skin
To the girl dolled up with headphones hung effortlessly about her neck. Did your nose piercing hurt with the sting of disapproval? Did the ink flowers etched in your arms prick with the blood of disappointment? I ask because, standing beneath the yellow bulb in the hubbub of a pub at nine pm, … Continue reading The Girl in Black
Beautiful woman, what are you doing? Tucking yourself in at night, lighting candles and tracing your hipbone. Messy woman, what are you doing? Bathing at midnight to rise at dawn, your old routine overthrown. Beautiful woman, what are you doing? Dates with the dark, a bottle to yourself and eating alone. Messy … Continue reading Eating Alone
She bit her lip, a blushing rose with petal soft cracks and tried to count 'I love you's on her fingers, a confused abacus squeaky with rust. When 'two' 'three' and 'four' should have been falling from her teeth and tongue she found her fingers in her hair, forest fire wild tangled with wind beaten … Continue reading Midnight.
Some women have dreams Of weddings and bows But I dream of love and Men I do not know And with stubbornness They find no escape Between the gap in my teeth. Image credit.
Bath water gathers at her edges, bubbles shrink pricked with oxygen and her probing thoughts, finger. The 40 watt bulb becomes a thick aura, neither here nor there as beneath the surface she senses only her heart beat, beat, beat. She's naked in and out of water, peeling away layers she hopes she can only … Continue reading An Evening Bath