My bed is cold. Always cold. 

Every night I dread crawling into it. It is unforgiving. When I prepare myself for bed, I find myself procrastinating actually going to bed.

As I bind my hair and remove my makeup, I imagine what it would be like if it wasn’t so cold. If I could curl up with something besides the oversized pillows. If I could cuddle up with something besides the countless number of soft blankets. If I could clutch something besides my stuffed animals that society tells me I’m too old for.

As I grab my toothbrush, a pang of pain hits me. My soul is crying. I do not want to go to my cold bed. I do not want to go to bed. It is too lonely.

I wish you were here. Oh, how I wish you were here. When you were here, I felt safe and content. Even if you never passed out in bed with me, I felt warm in your arms. The pain wasn’t so strong. The nightmares didn’t jump out of the corners. 

But you’re not here. You’re never here. I’m on my own. And I’m not sleeping in my bed.

I sleep on the couch.

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