There was an old, wooden bed frame.

Sturdy, faded, and carved with spirals that chipped away through time. It was held by 4 posts. It steadied the slumber of generations of dreamers.

Old lovers that spent their nights curled within each other, waiting for the worst of a storm to pass. Their safety was incubated through the deafening waves of nature.

Young lovers who struggled against poverty and desperation, striving to make ends meet. They allowed themselves to give each other reassurance.

Children who were naive but happy, battling their bedtimes with restless kicking and giggling, despite their exhaustion. They grew, and soon there was only room for one at a time.

A teenage son drowning his thoughts in music, battling his demons as his youth was escaping. His fears grew too large to be contained in a bed frame.

A teenage daughter healing her past transgressions, collapsing into the bed and pleading for her past to stop chasing her. Her mind was focusing on understanding the future.

She tossed the old bed frame out, and was given an iron one to replace it.

The old, wooden bed frame squeaked when you sat on it. It was stained. It was worn down. There were scars on the wood. Nails stuck out from under the original baseboards.

There were scars on the wood.
There were scars on the wood, and the wood was scarred, and so was everyone who ever laid in it.

There was an old, wooden bed frame, that was bought brand new.

Now, there are scars in the wood.

What if every little thought
That lives inside your head
Instead of hiding away in there
Was spoken out, was said?

Would you be embarrassed?
Would you hate your mouth?
Would you rather be mute
Than let the truth come out?

What if every little thing
That people thought of you
Instead of being tucked away
Was heard, was listened to?

Would you be ashamed?
Would you cover your ears?
Would you rather be deaf
Than let the truth come near?

And what if every image
That passes through your thoughts
Was freed from its prison
To roam until it rots?

Would you be disgusted?
Would you look away?
Would you rather be blind
Than see your thoughts at play?

Is curling up on the ground beautiful,
When carpet imprints on your face, leaving a portrait of people who have walked all over you

You tell me that your heartbreak is infinite.
You tell me that you're blinded by anger.
You tell me that your loss hurts the most.
You tell me that my beauty will never be forgotten because it was written; and so that story will live on forever.

You tell me that a line written on a page in bleeding ballpoint pen ink will outlast even the sharpest minds.
You tell me that matter dissappears when it's seemingly destroyed.
You tell me that a supernova is the death of a star, because that star will never live again.
You tell me that love exists once for everyone, and that it is always the same.
You tell me that love is one size fits all.

I'll tell you that your heartbreak will ease.
I'll tell you that anger disguises and is a liar.
I'll tell you that loss isn't quantifiable.
I'll tell you that my beauty was built to be forgotten; because I only live once.

I'll tell you that a line written in bleeding ballpoint pen ink will smudge and tear and dissolve, and that our minds can fail us.
I'll tell you that matter is everywhere and only ever transforms into something new.
I'll tell you that a supernova is a birth of different, beautiful energy being scattered endlessly.
I'll tell you that love is everywhere and all-encompassing, for everyone.
I'll tell you that love is one size fits all.

Perhaps, in the great scheme of things, even death is enough to elicit love in people who are shaken by grief.

If love is hurt and pain is pleasure,
then why is loving you not ecstasy?