What’s in my empty bed?
I’d like to say blankets from old forts or maybe pleasant dreams forgotten in the pillow threads.
Maybe water marks from when we pretended the bed was a boat.
We would never sink.
The water never stung.
Surely my imagination disappeared along with my sanity.
I didn’t have a choice like Wendy if I wanted to grow up.
It was ****** upon me like the unforgiving nightmares.
When dreams turned to black.
I promise if you puncture my pillow now some salty tears and sorrowful wails would escape from years of concealment.
Hope only exists in peaceful slumbers where temporary death occurs.
My bed is still empty even if I reside there.
Because I’m empty of my childhood.
I’m empty of what the world gave me.