Beds are for sleeping.
Deep breathing, sheets draped over your body.
Curled up against another warm figure.
Your heartbeats are in sync.
Beds are warm, soft and safe.
Beds aren't for crying.
Big, silent tears roll off your face and onto your pillow,
Tears that you never let daylight see,
Tears reserved for the privacy of the night.
Your covers almost hide your head,
Your hands balled to your chest,
Or curled around your torso,
As if you could hold in the pain,
As if you could pull your bones back in place and quiet your sobs.
As if you could pretend,
That those arms are another person,
Trying to love you.
Horros invade your head when it's most prone to succumbing,
Regret, guilt, worry,
All crawl out of the corners they waited in,
The drawers and boxes you shoved them in.
They nudge you and prod you and cloud your mind.
Cry and it won't cease.
Scream and they'll grin,
End it all,
And they'll laugh,
Because they know they've won.
But if you make it through the night,
You get another day.
Beds are for resting so you can live,
not for wishing you could die.
YOU ARE READING
Old Poetry and Prose
PoetryThis is very old, mostly unedited writing from several years ago. I had uploaded these on a different account but then I deleted all of it. I am posting them again here.
