Kristiana Reed on Blood Into Ink
My bed isn’t my bed. You bought it aged twenty. Your first adult purchase, to go in the bedroom on the second floor of your mother’s home. I helped you build it. Or, I watched you from the distance you held me at; furtively glancing at the instructions you frustratingly, typically ignored.
It creaked from the beginning. Beneath weight, sex and hot water illness. The metal legs bent in a matter of months. No longer sturdy but it moved with us. To the bedroom on the second floor of our house. It mismatched the furniture and was always a reminder of the childhood we were still loving in.
I still remember the night we met, fourteen years old, drinking Strongbow. Every night, heavy as lead beneath the sheets, I forgot the fairy lights, the teaspoon of whipped cream you kissed from my neck and the mystery of when I’d see…
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