Borrowed Beds

​There is no electricity. At the moment.In the sweltering heat of this  September evening, I keep squirming on this borrowed bed. Contorting my lean frame in discomfortingly inventive ways. I’m trying to occupy the perfect space on this bed I call home. I’m trying to cast myself as the perfect mold. I want to be the one this bed is made for. The one it longs for. The one it wants. I make it listen to my secrets and dry my tears. I introduce it to my nightmares and hopes it understands. I hope it sees. That it’s not that I’m thinking of me when I think of it and how to make it mine. It’s just that I want it to love me. I hope it does. I’ll deny it and say I don’t need it. But it can tell. I know. By how I feel soothed in it’s ready embrace. So it squeaks; a muffled giggle so it appears naive. A stifled yawn, so I don’t see that it’s tired. A silent complaint. 

They are all my beds. Some of thorns and some of roses. All these people I forcibly make my own. All these names I put in my heart like a jar and label “friend”. They are my artful collection and prized possession. I put them on shelves and showcase them to the world. But I don’t like it when others touch them. They are mine to be vulnerable with. Mine to treasure. From down here I look up at them. Eager for their attention. Fearful of their rejection. Pleasing them with every breath without knowing. Existing as a soul formed in the image of their shadow. I hear them squeak every now and then. 

The art of their silence is beautifully hung on the wall where “I miss yous” are expected to be. Some are kind. Enough to let me know that I’ve overstayed my welcome. That this is where they want to make their nest. And I’m not at all part of their ambitions. I’m a faint blip on the radar of their life’s course. They decide whether I get to keep blinking annoyingly. They decide because I’ve made them the admirals of my life. They decide, because I’ve made them my life boat. 

Sleeping on the cold hard floor is not that bad though. Especially in this heat. Maybe I have given this bed too much power over my joy. Maybe when the lights come back on, I should still sleep on the floor.

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Published by: Akyempo

i met the Priest...i realised that though society seems to respect the baker and despise the shepherd, the baker is not happy despite his stability and the shepherd is free to pursue the pyramids, because he is a dreamer; and one day he will meet Fatima. I am the boy; the shepherd.

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