resting easy in the embrace
of clear definitions, and isn’t it
lovely? lounging about on
a bed of words that make
perfect sense. knowing always
that you’ll never have to eat them
because they’re perfect.
then someone says excuse me, no,
wrong, incorrect. you roll off
the platform to fight them. maybe
they hate the stitching, or they
loathe you for your comfort?
no matter, you come up swinging.
they challenge you as if this was not your bed
to make, with the audacity of
wanting to lie in it too and you’d have
to give up some room for that.
after a fierce battle you cower
in a corner of the bed. you’re aware
of the cold stickiness of every little
spot of blood and every little scrap of bone
left in the bedsheets grinds into you
like a pea, a boulder, a whole continent
you never used to notice. from the corner
where you are you notice others in bed
with you looking just as miserable as you
and maybe it’s time to change the bed
but the memory, the memory of how soft
the old definitions used to feel when you
snuggled into them keeps you immobile
as you glare back at those people over there.
you’re certain it’s better over there.