Seeping from my chest just to be collected in the sheets—my coronary artery pumps sorrow thru my being and sometimes gets a little on my pillow. The water that flows through me has been finding a way out through my face more than I’m willing to admit. My memory foam mattress holds a lot more than just the shape of my body when it’s bitter. It’s like a keepsake of all my mistakes, holding on to the shapes of each word spit out of his mouth To be put at the foot of the bed in hopes that they’ll fall from the bottom of my sheets. But these mistakes keep reappearing next to me in bed, my memory foam mattress will remember the things I desperately try to forget. Slight stabs to the side that startle me awake. My tears seep into my mattress and outline the bodies that no longer know I exist. My place to rest looks a lot like a graveyard holding my body just under the surface in a hole I can’t seem to find a way out of. These memories can’t escape. My bed has become an accomplice with the fingerprints of all the criminals that stayed just long enough to see me take my last breath. A jail cell that has me chained to my recollection of you. My bed isn’t my happy place but rather my death sentence. And I like to call her my bed of sorrows.
Lindsey Hardy is a student at West Chester University. LH911835@wcupa.edu