My bed

It is a simple thing.

The place where you rest at night, where dreams surface and nightmares run free.

Where limbs tangle, bodies press and snores rumble in a cacophony of bodily expression of rest. Where you can roll over and find hearts desire, whether that is another soul to watch the night through or the wonderous expanse of space to stretch out and take up and roll up.

And yet somehow I find that my bed is becoming no longer a haven, but something else entirely.

MEMORY FOAM – where my mind wracks over and over the thoughts in my head, sees pictures, stresses “am I good enough?” “Am I strong enough?” “This bad thing happened and I am not okay” Only the darkest of thoughts lie in this mattress

LATEX – I confine myself to my bed daily, using it as a space to avoid and protect me from other people, who’s intentions are entirely kind and good towards me, but I have covered myself with the sanitary shield.

COILS – my spine a permanent C shape as I get in it, coiling and curling to block out the birds, the light, the world. If I am not a part of it, then I don’t have to think about it.

Sheets and doonas are my chains, keeping me tied to a space that only makes my depression worse. Pillows are as rocks under my head, barely comfortable in this pain filled time. Tasks like reading or watching do little to sate my exhaustion or my boredom.

I am a prisoner in my own bed.

The jailer is a cruel master.