Neglect
The bed is unmade.
Deflated and
crude pillows
mark a haven of unrest.
Sleep is lost easily in its creases
but let out
as the night progresses.
The bed is benign.
Its folds weep
dust mites
when I lay upon it.
The bed is unmade, rumpled and
lonely.
To say that I am lonely would be a gross understatement. Grosser than a crumb spotted chin under intense acne pressure, bursting at the pores. My life is much grosser than that.
It would be better for us if I were
wide eyed waiting, but instead, I've got my eyes fixed to the inside of my brain. I'm a queen for diolougue, and I have you saying things that have never been said.
I've got someone else in my head.
"Why so small?" She inquired, body hunched over as if she were punctuating her own question. "I need room for the after party." She answered herself. Talking alone was no longer a matter for scrutiny, it was only a matter of sanity. "It takes a real woman to ask, punctuate, and answer her own questions." Her final sentence satisfied her as she cracked her spine a bit more and settled herself in between the lines.
I know I spelled dialogue wrong.