sjsprWriting

The bed sings lullabies and whispers sweet nothings; it gives aching promises of a night well-rested and there is a longing in your bones for the kind of sleep only a bed can promise. The air will be too cold, just the way you like it, and the blankets warm enough. You’ll hide under them, pretend you do not in fact have any responsibilities, that’s just crazy talk.

There are too many pillows and you build a little wall with them, cage yourself in. It’s easier, when you feel surrounded and safe. You sleep closer to the wall, farthest from the edge. All this time and it still makes you nervous.

There are some things that take awhile to grow out of.