sheets
We were texting while I wandered around Target’s linen aisles looking for sheets for the bed I had just bought. She told me she would have helped. I didn’t know it was going to be so complicated. She told me what colors she likes and it was almost like we were doing it together.
Her and I.
The girl I thought was in love with me. The girl I thought was the one. The girl whose face had started appearing in all future possibilities.
The bed wasn’t meant for her. Not immediately. It was just a series of upgrades I had been making to myself and to my home so that there would actually be room for someone else. I have been living in a box for so long, busily collecting and hiding secrets like a squirrel. I thought that was finally about to change. I let that little hope creep into my black heart and paint some color on the walls. But no one could have known just how dark it was in there. The bright walls curled up and died like plastic in a fire.
There is no room for happiness in here. Pain covers the walls like moss. The real darkness isn’t in anything you can touch. Not on the walls. Not an old mattress, easily replaced with new. The real darkness is frightful like monsters under the bed. It is frightful like the knife in your hand that seems to be the only thing offering a solution. I long to see the metal stained with my sap. To see the debris of my loneliness swept away in the tiny flood.
I would do it on the bed. On the dark red sheets she suggested I buy. And did. You wouldn’t even see it coming out. I would just melt away like a chocolate bar in dirt under the sun.
But I can’t do it. I have already made the bed. Folded the sheets, stacked the pillows, like I do every morning. It is ready for her. Ready for that day that will never come.
Her and I.
The girl I thought was in love with me. The girl I thought was the one. The girl whose face had started appearing in all future possibilities.
The bed wasn’t meant for her. Not immediately. It was just a series of upgrades I had been making to myself and to my home so that there would actually be room for someone else. I have been living in a box for so long, busily collecting and hiding secrets like a squirrel. I thought that was finally about to change. I let that little hope creep into my black heart and paint some color on the walls. But no one could have known just how dark it was in there. The bright walls curled up and died like plastic in a fire.
There is no room for happiness in here. Pain covers the walls like moss. The real darkness isn’t in anything you can touch. Not on the walls. Not an old mattress, easily replaced with new. The real darkness is frightful like monsters under the bed. It is frightful like the knife in your hand that seems to be the only thing offering a solution. I long to see the metal stained with my sap. To see the debris of my loneliness swept away in the tiny flood.
I would do it on the bed. On the dark red sheets she suggested I buy. And did. You wouldn’t even see it coming out. I would just melt away like a chocolate bar in dirt under the sun.
But I can’t do it. I have already made the bed. Folded the sheets, stacked the pillows, like I do every morning. It is ready for her. Ready for that day that will never come.