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He’s warm and soft and tempting. He even smells warm. But I don’t have time for this—there’s work to be done. I know I should take him out, fold him up, put him away, and shut the drawer for good. I know better. But he smells—he smells so warm and new and clean and tender and gentle. He’s beseeching me to climb in, to allow myself to sink into his all encompassing embrace, to ignore all reason and carelessly float in his soft-smelling air, feeling his comfortable warmth all around me. I know better. I know his routine, but still I’m torn every time. Every time I find my mind wandering, foolishly entertaining the ideas he proposes. It could be so warm and safe—that home inside the dryer. If I’d just climb in maybe I wouldn’t feel trapped, longing for room to stretch and air to breathe. Maybe the hot, sharp edges of his zippers wouldn’t burn me this time. Maybe I would be happy with him in our home inside the dryer. But each time I dance with these thoughts, the music halts abruptly— I know better. His soft, comforting warmth will not last. In his darkness, he will become cold and wrinkled. Right now he is tempting, teasing, enticing. But I know better. A person cannot live inside a dryer.
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Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
A Home Inside the Dryer
He’s warm and soft and tempting. He even smells warm. But I don’t have time for this—there’s work to be done. I know I should take him out, fold him up, put him away, and shut the drawer for good. I know better. But he smells—he smells so warm and new and clean and tender and gentle. He’s beseeching me to climb in, to allow myself to sink into his all encompassing embrace, to ignore all reason and carelessly float in his soft-smelling air, feeling his comfortable warmth all around me. I know better. I know his routine, but still I’m torn every time. Every time I find my mind wandering, foolishly entertaining the ideas he proposes. It could be so warm and safe—that home inside the dryer. If I’d just climb in maybe I wouldn’t feel trapped, longing for room to stretch and air to breathe. Maybe the hot, sharp edges of his zippers wouldn’t burn me this time. Maybe I would be happy with him in our home inside the dryer. But each time I dance with these thoughts, the music halts abruptly— I know better. His soft, comforting warmth will not last. In his darkness, he will become cold and wrinkled. Right now he is tempting, teasing, enticing. But I know better. A person cannot live inside a dryer.
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Written by
shadesofwrong
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
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