about my bed

i wonder how many times i can tell my bed i am sick of it.
It sits there as if it expects a guest,
with more than five pillows, and two blankets.
knowing i only use one of each.
all it does is remind me how the other half of my bed is empty.
i spent too many years futon couches, i only take up a small space.
my bed just reminds me how no one fills up the rest.

my bed's a douche.

i mean it's big enough for three of me
the way i sleep i could fit in five if we're spooning
such wasted space, such wasted pillows
stacked neatly waiting to be used
next to a blanket never even thought about
because mine is warm enough
mine is warm enough
for my body
but my heart
my insides
my guts

they all yearn for someone else
the smell of hair
of sweat
to hold something through the night
and share inner warmth with

my bed likes to laugh at my guts

because i neglected it for so long
it wants to remind me how it felt
with an empty space

i'm sorry bed for hurting you
but i'm still sick of your shit