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.