My bed gives up my secrets. It has no discretion, my flagrant, wanton bed. Open like a book to read me, the sheets and pillows of it. For a new lover, my bed boasted a new silken coverlet, and when he was away, a child’s teddy appeared as if in a dream and took up its home in the dent his head had left in the pillow. For a sleepless child, my bed wound its sheets like onion peelings around its own feet, reminding me come morningtime of those small tears and the wakeful hours. These tells are usual for beds, and I don’t mind these minor indiscretions.
But worse is when my bed won’t hold its tongue about secrets I haven’t yet admitted to myself. Anyone passing my open bedroom door can see my bed hasn’t been slept in for days, the mattress isn’t even covered decently .. and my bed manages somehow without moving to indicate that small nest of blankets and silk on the floor. My bed says, she’s rejected me, she’s sleeping on the FLOOR goddammit .. and I say, rejected you? Hush bed, hush .. and pass me a pillow.