the bed is creaking.
there is no love-making tonight;
the frame protests with the perpetual shivering of a lonely being—
hardly human anymore,
this whimpering creature.
it cowers into the quilt and tangles its thick legs in the sheets.
it tries to stop shaking.
it smothers itself in blankets to keep warm.
it's not used to the cold.
fantasies of body heat radiating into its skin fuel its comfort
as long as it believes something is there beside it
breathing, sleeping,
dreaming,
the chill will never swallow it.
tonight those fantasies are fragmented.
the creature weeps into bedding.
it smells like itself.
there is no scent of the body it desires to sleep with.
was it ever there?
the bed frame cries.
was it ever there?
it shakes and moans.
how does something grow addicted to a substance it has never come into contact with?
stillness.
the tremors cease.
there is no love-making tonight.
it was never there to begin with.
YOU ARE READING
the beekeeper.
PoetryVent Poetry Warning: Strong language Trigger warnings: Schizophrenia Self Harm Abuse (physical, verbal, and sexual) Gore
