A new mattress, a crisp start, a fresh sleep ahead.
Gone are the stains that blotted my sight. Gone is the surface which burned in my back. Gone is the flop that sucked at my brain. Gone are the smells that caused me to tremble. Gone is the abuse which honed my guilt. Gone is the fabric that registered sickness. Gone are the springs which recalled stress. Gone are the wounds which my knife had rent. Gone is the presence of past mistakes.
The old mattress, alive in sleep, had rested beneath me like a bed of nails. What horrible secrets it harbored, locked within its festering springs, rusted with wine and waste. They’d whisper them upward, when I approached peace, and putrefy my haven. I’d feel their presence taint my soul, wrinkle my forehead, settling in. I could hear the dust mites laughing, see their fangs jutting.
How I felt my insides splay and splash across its grayish breast. How I felt my bladder empty, hotly within a coma. How I lay in shame and felt my tears tinkle; my rage increase; my hatred of the morning. How my body shuddered and shook like an old truck, gasping for fuel, running on oil. How the mattress groaned beneath my pestilent weight, my self-made sickness, my puss-logged body. How many times did I wake up drenched?
Gone is that mattress, weeping by the dumpster, debased and forgotten.
Gone is the mattress named Regret.
And in comes the new; I pushed it up the stairs.
Upward, upward, my faceless bride, three flights high. We shall get acquainted, gently at first, warming with familiarity. As our bodies grow together, maturing horizontally, trusting, in spite of the ravaged predecessor. Welcome home. I mean to treat you right.