this is my bed

this is my bed

dressed in a warm sunset and brilliant blue novas

a place where I tangle in the sheets

with my lover

and my cats between my feet

this is my bed

where each day it calls me

dragging me down

and down

and down

this is my bed

comfort and warmth

molds of my body

familiar and mine

this is my bed

where my cats often wander

sniffing about

for a hand that no longer reaches


this is my bed

where tears have soaked pillows

where blood has been spilled

where I once tried to die
this is my bed

where I once used to dream

and now I just sleep

no pictures for me

this is my bed

where I once loved in these sheets

and now there’s just sorrow

and what’s left of me

As angsty and a bit melodramatic as this is, yesterday I crawled into my bed and found it ironic that it’s where I tend to want to be most and yet dread coming to. I realized that I’m wasting away sleeping and yet it’s all I want to do because despite how dreadful I feel in bed it’s also familiar.

This bed frame and mattress have been with me for seven years, now, and the sheets I’ve had just as long so it’s always been the same bed. I’ve only gone briefly without it and the entire time I was itching to move into my own place so I could bring my bed back to me again.

Anyways, I wrote this as I laid in bed and wanted to share it. I think it shows a bit of my headspace when I’m in that sort of down and I’m pretty happy I was able to express it. I do miss writing poetry sometimes because I always found it rather therapeutic. 


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