Generational Divide
She only speaks to me these days
through groaning floorboards in the night
and slammed doors. Through
eye-rolls, half-eaten dinners, and empty packets
of birth control pills. Her friends
and their mothers are ghosts,
glimpses of them fleeting and faceless
in my periphery. If I could find the words to ask,
would she let me remember
the warmth of her cheek
or the arch of her hip under my creased palm?
I’m too afraid of her rejection to risk my own
voice. In passing, I reach to stroke her hair
but she slips away like a silverfish
scurrying inside the walls.
Romy Morreo (she/they) completed her MA Creative Writing at the University of Chichester. She has since had work published in various literary magazines and anthologies, with a focus on free-verse poetry and dark fiction. Instagram and X: @romymorreo