Things That Ruin

by Allison Showstead


The smell of cinnamon 
An autumn afternoon
The soft sun overhead
We barely had to squint
To see against the glow

Apples sitting on the table
A pie on the windowsill
That hadn’t even cooled yet
I wanted it to be like
The movies

I wanted it to feel
Like my grandmother’s
Stuffy kitchen in the South 
Side of Boston – too hot sometimes, 
But always warm

You and I sat a foot apart on the porch
And I ached to touch
Wanted warmth so badly
My fingers trembled like
I was starved for you

Your father was an officer
He taught his sons to be strong
But not pliable
Your house never smelled
Like pie or too many bodies

I took what you could give me
There is simplicity in settling
In and settling down and I think
We were scared to love too much
For fear that it would ruin us 


Allison Showstead is a recent college graduate living in Boston, Massachusetts. She earned a Bachelor’s degree in Business with a concentration in Accounting from Northeastern University. She enjoys traveling and reading. Her writing is inspired by the work of Warsan Shire and Deborah Landau.

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