Black Mould

Black Mould

Damp from the window
has left a black mould
on my heart.

A black rot in my soul.

I hate how it always
assumes the shape of you.

Like a vast shadow
spreading slowly over
the ceiling’s endless expanse.

Your poems hack up
like a cold and
persistent cough now.

A sorry respiratory irritation
I no longer want
to breathe through.

I only want to breathe
in poems for me now.

But first I must write
to bleach you
from my memory.

Like the sun bleaches
colour from the white
garments of time.

And teases out glass-like hair
from the sun-kissed tides
of yesterday.

Reviews

[RomaJ]

This is beautifully bleak .. the metaphor of black mould feels so true to how heartbreak lingers, quietly corroding what used to feel safe. I love how you move from suffocation to cleansing, from “breathing through” someone else’s words to reclaiming your own air. The closing lines feel like sunlight finally reaching a damp room .. painful but necessary. A powerful reflection on writing as both wound and remedy.