A Well Made Bed
my fitted sheet comes loose most nights,
which i guess means i toss and turn, or
that i dream i have somehow become you.
i am sleeping to block out the part of the day
where dusk hovers over the horizon, and
forces the sun to submission. i am roughing
up the blankets whether they ask me to or not.
i am an unwilling predator. they say it is
likely to become that which has harmed you.
if so, that must be why the buttons on my
duvet are all undone in the morning. it took
me a long time to allow myself to sleep
naked. to look at my pale body and not
wish it a ghost. now, i tuck myself below
thick comforters. now, i take medicine before
bed and wake up groggy. it is worth it to
make it through another evening. to make
it through the next day and the day after.
sometimes, i am afraid to close my eyes.
to slip into a rem cycle and lose track of
everything except for you. you are the
box spring i cannot do without. you are
the empty space on the left side of the
mattress. call it denial or fear of letting go.
i find myself restless, legs kicking the
pillows to the floor. maybe that is its
own form of empathy. to lay my head
down, to wrestle with your memory,
to hurt something soft, and say
look what you made me do.
Sara Trattner is a poet and student from the greater Cleveland area. Her work has previously been published in Gyroscope Review, Bop Dead City, Mad Swirl, and others. She is grateful to be published by The Mantle and share the company of several amazing poets.