aha!
i'v learned to hate my bed. i can't find rest there.
when i get in, i become aware of distance.
my arms are weak. they tremble.
and a room so dull, the entering sun feels blue.
i hate my bed
i hate my bed because it lacks a spray of colour, it lacks the red of your warmed cheek and the green speckles that hide in your eyes. i hate my bed because its in a room with walls that aren't draped with your pictures, those happy, those sad.
i move from my bed, my feet find a floor that seems brown with wood, but i fear its just dead plastic.
i love plastic, when it acts like itself, sharp and pretty, out of place on a beach like a fugitive flower.
outside my door i can look back into my room at my dead bed, pretending to float on its fake floor, wanting to be pretty, its blankets and sheets in a mound of folds and wrinkles.
i feel sad for my bed so i move closer to it, i touch where i had lain, just moments before
i see my pillow with a slight indent and i want my head to fill it. i put myself back into my bed, which i don't feel so sour towards and with my head sunk into the pillow i close my eyes and dream about a bed with sheets so white, they become any colour we want, i dream of a bed so warm in a room so full of light that the blue rain clouds outside shine with hopes of turning to a red and a pink that will find our walls as the sky fills with the yellow of a sun that climbs through our bedroom window so it too can lay in bed with us.
i loved my bed, but i left it a few hours ago.
i hate my clothes...
just kidding.