My house



I panic at the thought
of sharing my house with someone
(my bed, my books,
my cat)
of him finding out I’m not as
smart or pretty or tidy
as he thought,
of him not liking the way I
smell in the morning,
my crooked nose
my unshaved legs
my too long getting ready
the perfume I bought myself when I turned 30.
and then one morning, as I wake up,
there they are,
in bitter autumn light:
my house, my bed, my books,
my cat.

text:
Cristina, 30
Romania
December 2019