The Cupboard Under the Stairs



Invidious was the time in her bosom,

in the cold of night, in every day’s light,

through misspent moments of childhood.

Grey were the washed walls of my cell

in hell that earthly paradise of Eden

hanging from the tree like forbidden fruit.


Melancholy visited often playing with me,

gluing bruises to my crumpled paper soul.

Loneliness became the friend I longed to lose

in my shared chamber of unearthed secrets

laid bare by naked teeth with malicious intent,

tearing my crumpled paper heart from my chest.


A famine of love I feasted on in abundance

across a wooden table of sibling loathing

in a heartless beloved familiar fraternity.

Great was the hate felt often through kid gloves

of ice in summer, of fretted knives slicing

the sensitive nervous of this un-manly boy.


Dark were the dim days of destruction

where cataclysmic chasms spread schisms

through the rift valley of parental negligence.

Hard were the games I played in the war of love

my beloved family set for me in the courtroom

of their plastic loveless hearts and shallow souls.


Silent grow nights passed in lonely contemplation

where love is unknown, is missed, and never visits.

But my ken understands the darkness of the cupboard

under the stairs.


Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15 or



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About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on
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