Why Does my Bed Feel Like a Grave?
Because I went to sleep, a child,
gentle,
trusting;
dreaming of frosted cakes
sitting on rose patterned china;
tea parties with
soft bunnies around my table
and peppermint teddie bears
dancing to a gentle tune.
I was tucked into soft sheets
fragrant from my bath
smelling of soap and baby shampoo
and waking to the stench of
sulphur choking me
and befouling the air.
Somehow a living breathing demon
with dripping talons and foul breath
who has
no mercy
no soul
no pity;
who pulls at
me
and falls on me
time and
time again;
who sends me
to a hell I
did
not
know
existed,
over and
over again,
—somehow he has found me in my bed and so
my soft pj’s
have turned into
grave clothes
of shame
which I can
never
shed.
I suffer
silently
a screech, a
banshee cry of terror
locked inside my mind.
It can never
never be
heard,
it can
only go with me
to my grave…
like my innocence
I forgot that I died at his hand
but my bed; my grave,
remembers
night after weary night.
‘Sleep disorder drove my son to suicide,’ New York mother says: ‘Broke my heart’
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Published April 26, 2024 5:30am EDT
