The Death Bed
I was tangled in his sheets. Death lurking in the mattress like “Nightmare on Elm Street”. Not a horror but a tragedy. Eyes wide shut I continued to sleep. Stretching myself thin, trying to hold on to him, to tighter than a fitted sheet. All signs and blaring horns alike, obsolete. Rules of engagement broken along with our bail bond and he escaped with cold feet. But it’s a cold world for a curvy dark-skin girl, so I made him my comforter and I cocooned myself in him. Threw my dignity in the wind. Left my identity to this man’s whim. Self esteem stashed somewhere dark and dirty near the condoms, cuffs, the kinky boots and the lacy outfit. Tell me when you find it. In those sheets I lost me. Blame it on the juice, I blamed it on my genes. Big breasts thick thighs. Tell Ginuwine there isn’t any more room for even me!
I needed his attention for validation, love for confirmation, words for affirmation, and body for consummation. Penetration goes deep. Into a hole and leaves a bigger one, but I told myself it made me complete. Monogamy; fluid as a waterbed, my heart had a slow leak. The boogie man cackled underneath. Telling me if I rolled out, solitude and loneliness would haunt me. So I lay there, the devil on my shoulder clapping off the lights dimming the idea of leaving. Desire and dependency can be so deceiving. Disrobing my better judgment and tossing it to the wayside. Striving to keep him on his high horse and balance on my pedestal, his loins I began to mount and I wrapped myself with delusional images and lies that exceeded the thread count. Hill’s “Killing Me Softly” became my lullaby. I lay there, bare and misused, too empty to cry. Goose feathered pillow talks drowned out the sounds of the crows cawing at the decay of my self-love and pride. And it was there, on my back that I almost allowed me to die.
-by Markie Wolfe