the attic

By Arianna Kyriacou



you always

expected me

to immediately get

on my knees for you


you are not

something

to be worshipped

you are not a god


i am not below you

yet i know

you are not capable of loving me

without making me feel


so small


so


i tuck the way i feel about you

into tattered cardboard boxes

that sit thick with dust

above the bed

we spend far too much time on


it lies dead, enclosed around brown walls

and it’s damp & leaking onto

the floor, through the muddy print you left

from your size twelve shoe


sometimes it drips

onto my torso while you are

bruising my jaw and

strangling my neck for fun