I let a man into my room because I couldn’t bear
the thought of him with someone else.
Even though he wasn’t, never had been,
never would be mine. I showed a man
into my room as if I was selling him the space.
I opened the door and let a shadow
follow me inside. I didn’t turn on the light,
I turned on every light. I allowed a man
into my room and he was kind.
I let a man push past me through the door
and told myself I didn’t really mind.
I let a man follow me to my room
and didn’t close the door in time.
I let a man into my room which turned
into a lift and we were together then apart
then together then apart depending on
whether the doors were open wide.
I let a man into my body and let him sleep
inside my room. I let him in, I let him in,
I said that he could do these things,
but only in my mind. I let a man
into my room and took a vow of silence,
took a vow of there’s no turning back
because a mind is not for changing.
The men inside my room do not like leaving.
They think they know my name
but one of us is lying. I step across
the threshold. I follow them inside.
Once they’re in, they’re in.
I open then I close my eyes.
Kim Moore lives in Cumbria. Her first full-length collection The Art of Falling was published by Seren in 2015 and won the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize.
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This article appears in the 13 Mar 2019 issue of the New Statesman, She’s lost control