Life In Dents

Someone’s life lay on the side of the road, 
their story indented 
in a mattress discarded there.
As I walk past, I imagine ghosts
clinging to threads of worn spots
where legs tangled together 
and passion spilled over the middle hump.
Sleepless nights — 
unraveled in frayed edges,
dried-up in curl-shaped dents
of nursing babies and sick children.
Exposed — 
traces of early morning chats in spilt coffee
and the filth from late night TV binging. 
Why would someone dump their life so carelessly?

I think about my own mattress
cluttered with far worse flaws and stains.
My refuge — 
a burial place for yesterdays, 
for dreams turned to dust, 
for my heart.
It’s tasted my tears,
suffered my tantrums,
accepted my needs for drunken one-night-stands
and sleeping all day.
I imagine how cold and alone it is 
and I want to run to it — 
right now, in the middle of the day 
and cling to it like a cat needing stroked.
I want to curl up in my dent 
and sink into my gathered darkness.

I think about the end
and how sad my mattress will look
holding my lifeless body,
how my own story, pressed into sags and lumps, 
will be discarded,
exposed and judged.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.