Our Many Fears

The Bed I Made

In my head there's a bed. I have cleaned it, and laid it. The room it sits in is dusted, and arranged. This is your bed, yet you do not belong in it.

The room isn't for you. That door has been closed, I can promise you that. The room, instead, is for me. I haven't left it a mess, the way you left it.

I clean up my memories, I show them off. My mind isn't a mess because you decided to throw all you had around.
To damage everything we gained.

No, regardless of your intensions, that part of my mind has been cleaned. I visit it often, to appreciate the gap it made for a better person to move in.