The past reverberates through me in the present

stains my clothes pungent.

At fifteen, a boy stole the solace of the dark from me

in his bed

with his hands.

Now when he touches me,

he must keep the lights on.

 

In sleep the past has me,

travels upwards, claws at my throat

and I cry out

for the dark to let me in.

 

At twenty, the boy who stole the solace of my own bed from me,

tried replacing it with flowers.

For the whole of July, he came dressed in guilt.

My room, the act, immortalised in

Jasmine.

 

When he says he didn’t mean to

that he is sorry

it is the first time

I have ever seen him cry.

 

The past sits under my tongue

I make a consecration from his words

my last supper is his last apology,

I thank him.

 

Yesterday, he said we hadn’t had sex for a while,

I know we had

because the lights were off.

The house was in bloom.