Pt.1 There once was a girl who sat on a pew, wondering if she should wear pink, white or blue, if ribbons suited pigtails, if pigtails even suited wandering forest trails. She sat and waited, dangling her shoes, the only part easy to choose. In truth she knew, all that was important was being with … Continue reading Daddy’s Weekend – feat. Alan Mackenzie Taylor-Reed
On our first date I told you I'd dated two before you. The first, Liza was blonde, stern but held stories in her eyes, yours, mine and every fortnight we sat before her fireplace. I often cried and she held me at arms length, preferring emails to the confines of a room; room I … Continue reading Therapy
I remember thinking there was nothing to live for, steering into that abhorrent skid. I remember the good old days, but kid, rose-coloured glasses betray them, every single time. I remember you asking how the world had gotten me so down, why I couldn't smile without the unintended frown, so I asked … Continue reading I Remember – feat. Nicholas Gagnier
Dying isn't cowardly and talking takes bravery, convincing our tongues carrying their stories, they are the lifeguards swimming for our hearts. It takes a second to keep on wishing for our pulse to stop and restart, the joy you feel when you open your curtains and the sun is shining, when you witness a mother … Continue reading Our hearts
In her Rapunzel tower
she watched and waited
for each night’s moon;
to rise from the window ledge
into full view,
waxing and waning
crescent yellow blue.
The lines in its face
told a story of heartache
she also knew;
the puckered pale flesh
weaving rivers across her thighs,
reflecting dead light
in the night sky.
Kristiana Reed day dreams, people watches in coffee shops, teaches English and writes. She is a curator on Blood into Ink, a collective member of The Whisper and the Roar & Sudden Denouement, and blogs at My Screaming Twenties. She is 24 and is enjoying the journey which is finding her voice.
Reading a book in the window seat. Glass of water, carrots, cabbage and mince. I wrote this poem, if you can even call it that, in a restaurant at lunch time. This restaurant is cosy, small but always busy; a place for families, friends and young couples. Therefore, it was a surprise to watch as … Continue reading The Usual Jenny
You are standing in a meadow,
it is lush green,
the kind people talk about
from the other side.
Life swells in pockets;
a city of daisies,
a bumblebee filling it’s knees,
tall tulips swaying in the breeze,
a buried village in the undergrowth
ants, woodlice and centipedes.
Sunshine weighs heavy
on your back,
on your shoulders,
your eyes water
and you cannot understand
what has brought you here;
to the edge of life in colour,
swimming in jewelled flowers,
the taste of pollen on your lips,
petals embracing the sun
the smell of hope –
You could step forward,
bare foot, unguarded
risking your soul for a chance
to choose the flowers
you adorn your home with.
Behind you is a forest,
shadowy fingers lingering
about your waist
stretching toward your throat,
to regain a firm hold
on your senses and pull
you into the shade.
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Tracing my fingers across your skin is like drawing a bath: the rushing water, the stampede of your heart. The way the water pools and swirls, the lines in your knuckles. The quiet stillness, a fountain of safety, a lake creamy and pale. The light bouncing up onto the ceiling, the sparkle in your eyes. … Continue reading Bathwater
You are painted with man’s desire
and God’s abhorrence of female lust.
You are lesbian, you are goddess,
you are teacher, anything other
With a voice as tall as Homer’s,
as fiery as the flame
nurtured by Hestia.
In every fragment
we sketched your breasts,
imagined how you’d lick your lips
and squeeze your thighs together.
We never heard what you had to say,
to Aphrodite nor that maid,
but bought front row seats
to what we sought to portray –
sex and sensuality,
morals and lost virginity.
With your words in our mouths
we endeavoured to set you free.
For thousands of years
we have misunderstood our task,
is just to listen to you speak.
Kristiana Reed juggles writing and teaching English; in both vocations she endeavours to remind people of their self worth and how dazzlingly beautiful the world can be.
You can read more of…
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You are here so I know this must be a dream. Figments my mind has melded to make up for the goodbyes and the times I’ve watched you walk away. Here you are dressed in white, not heavenly or pure but blank canvas mine, arms open wide ready to embrace my colours - yellow, fuchsia … Continue reading Figments