My bed isn’t my bed. You bought it aged twenty. Your first adult purchase, to go in the bedroom on the second floor of your mother’s home. I helped you build it. Or, I watched you from the distance you held me at; furtively glancing at the instructions you frustratingly, typically ignored.
It creaked from the beginning. Beneath weight, sex and hot water illness. The metal legs bent in a matter of months. No longer sturdy but it moved with us. To the bedroom on the second floor of our house. It mismatched the furniture and was always a reminder of the childhood we were still loving in.
I still remember the night we met, fourteen years old, drinking Strongbow. Every night, heavy as lead beneath the sheets, I forgot the fairy lights, the teaspoon of whipped cream you kissed from my neck and the mystery of when I’d see you next. Beside me, lay a man-shaped boy, poised to consume me or ignore me. I was no longer made of garden metaphors. I was skin to be used; stretched over your bones to make you feel whole. Or alone.
When I left you, you left me your soul; hidden in the mattress, pillows and bolts. We do not speak. Your soul is as silent as you were – stone cold seduction. My fingers leading instead. To scoop cherry blossom into my palms and kiss myself goodnight. It’s better this way, I know, but I can’t help hearing how hollow the springs sound as they shake.
They shake because they are weightless as I am naked. Naked because I finally feel safe. Naked because freedom feels better this way. My bed isn’t my bed but with each passing night and calling his name; it will be.
Kristiana Reed day dreams, people watches in coffee shops, teaches English and writes. She is a curator on Blood into Ink, a collective member of The Whisper and the Roar & Sudden Denouement, and blogs at My Screaming Twenties. She is 24 and is enjoying the journey which is finding her voice.