I'm a writer. Reader. Piano player. Survivor watcher. Food lover. Hair braider. Hat wearer. Over analyser. Hufflepuff-er. Also a glow-worm in my free time.

Message to Readers

I was very much inspired by my favourite poem of all time 'A Soft Edged Reed of Light's by Julia Corpus and poems in my A Level English Literature syllabus. Hopefully I evoked the spirit of those collections in my tiny poem.

The Attic

April 21, 2021

I’ve always lived in a house with an attic,
my fingernails forever dusty from running along
abandoned window sills, drawing spirals on wood left to wilt.
Underneath tent-shaped rooftops or
chestnut beams, skylights cracked in the centre
or musty vacuums of times long forgotten, 
lies my trainers, laces undone, soles still wet with mud from 
the only time I’ve ever won a medal, and 
my tea-stained mug from that one trip to Paris, 
rose tinted ceramic, and my first wax candle, creamy 
smooth vanilla like duvets meant for two,  
and my terracotta plant pot, ridges rimmed with soft dirt;
all folded neatly into a bruised cardboard box, scarred 
from being tossed and left to sulk in corners. 
Change the address, the shade of the sidewalk,
the handle on the front door, the size of the family
and my little cardboard box would prevail;
even under crackling candle light or the 
unforgiving afternoon zenith, as you confess that the trainers are
two sizes too small, mug handle chipped, umber wick burned 
to ashes, plant pot a head of hairline fractures.
One caress from shattering, one summer from forgetting,
occupying spaces that should be furnished with
prom dresses that cry sequins, prized essays with edges curled
into smirks, letters from people I will never see, whatever 
‘sparks joy’. Not three dimensional feelings that you can't let go of 
but have no place in this home. Not after. 
In the summer of the third house, we learn to bury 
emotion in the basement but leave mementos to dry,
crinkle with age, closer to the sky. Pickle the Bertha Masons 
and cursed board games in slow sun, in our hearts
despite wishing they would disappear. 
So how do I explain to you that yes,
secrets belong down below but memories
linger in the attic, arched across the groaning roof,
glimmering webs and creaking staircases. 
How can I tell you that sometimes, under the glow 
of an early September sunset,
the house below still, the world silent,
I’d find myself gleaming over my shrine to the past,
my relics and fossils of a bygone era,
and it would feel like I never left. 


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  • April 21, 2021 - 4:45am (Now Viewing)

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