THE CREAKING TYRANT


The thin streams of dull sunlight filtering through my cracked blinds discover my bed again cold and wanting.

Each grey morning, she complains that she needs a new mattress, of the itchy sheets, that the air conditioning is messing with her arthritis, of the resident bedbug getting too friendly with her box springs. My bed remains discontent even with my soothing and promise of a comforter, creaking and groaning each time my weight sinks into her cold, buckling softness and huddles trembling beneath stiff sheets and a thin quilt.

She takes her time to make me miserable, prodding constantly at my sides with staples and wires snaking up from her mattress, flipping me even as I attempt futilely to drift into sleep, stirring me even in my slumber, and lacing my pillow with visions that strain and buckle my overworked dream catcher. She cruelly tips my books from her body, their pages ripping in their tumble until they lay incomplete and jagged on the bare carpet floor.

I remain at a loss of what to do to soothe her savage moods, and she threatens, stands poised to do me more harm, warranting her demands are not met. She has made it quite clear that she has no interest in me, that I have neither the weight nor the parts to make her surrender like a shuddering maiden. So please, I beg, hurry back; soothe the creaking tyrant. I have yet to sleep a peaceful night since you left, and she grows all the more anxious and violent. Bring your body to warm her, your weight to soften the sheets, your arms to defend me from her next assault. I fear what evil she has yet in store for me.



the love letter collection
submitted 6:57 AM EST
sunday, december 16, 2007