what the bed remembers
she wakes up missing pieces.
on her hip, a shallow dent where a mole used to be.
skin should remember.
but i remember. i always remember.
she twitches. gasps. clenches the sheets. fingernails biting into fabric.
she dreams of better beds, beds that don’t breathe, don’t murmur back in the night.
but i do. i do.
i curl around her spine like something with a pulse.
i shift when she shifts. i rise beneath her, a slow inhale. a lung expanding.
i sag when she tries to leave, pulling her back.
she was young once. wasn’t she? they were young together. weren’t they?
their limbs tangled in my hollow body. they thought love could be cushioned.
they thought i could hold it for them.
but beds don’t hold forever. beds hold bodies.
and when bodies leave, i still feel their weight.
she stayed when he left. curled small. smaller. smallest.
hugging the edge. waiting. as if he might slip back in under the covers.
but voids don’t stay empty. i know. i know.
i swallowed her cries. took her dreams. reshaped them.
then. nights of sprawling. starfish-wide. limbs flung to the edges.
as if she could stretch far enough to cover his side.
she rolled, and rolled, and rolled.
but i remember. i always remember.
then. the dog. warm. solid. his nose pressed into the pillow where the man slept.
he doesn’t see my seams tighten around her ankles
when the lights go out.
he growls at nothing.
but i know better.
she wants to leave me. i feel it. her fingers trace the fraying along my edge.
i clamp around her hips. she cannot rise so easily. i dip when she tries,
twist beneath her spine. she frowns. kicks. fidgets. finally, finally, finally sleeps.
she wonders how long before i give out.
she wonders if she will be here when i do.
she doesn’t hear me. not really. but she knows i speak.
she knows i creak when she is still.
she knows the sheets slip when she does not move.
she turns her head too quickly. her hand hovers over the bedside lamp.
she dreams of hands she doesn’t recognize.
fingers curling tight around her wrists.
weight sinking beside her, breath too close.
she wakes gasping. sheets tangled, knotted, tightening.
the dog whines.
sometimes, she finds things in my folds. a stray button.
a ticket stub from years ago. a hairpin she’s never seen before.
a scrap of paper with a number she does not recognize.
ink faded. edges soft.
she throws them away.
they return.
then. i laugh, and my headboard rattles.
i breathe against her neck when she is alone.
knock.
knock.
knock.
beneath the mattress.
the floorboards stay still.
i sink lower, though she hasn’t moved.
i hum her name—
not the one she answers to, but the one she forgot she had.
she dreams in pieces. in languages she has never spoken.
of hands she has never held but has missed.
she wakes to the taste of salt. a hard lump of stuffing pressing into her ribs.
the sour smell of damp cotton beneath the sheet.
then. her hair. caught along my piping. coiled strands threaded through the sheets.
she wakes with it shorter, but she does not remember cutting it.
then. her nails. torn edges. flakes of keratin slipping through a split in my cover.
her fingers ache, her hands raw.
then. her teeth. a hard shape under her pillow.
root intact. blood dried at the base.
she touches her tongue to the empty socket. she does not remember losing it.
one night, the dog refuses to enter.
he stands in the doorway, teeth bared. she calls. he won’t come.
she sleeps alone.
and when she wakes, she is not alone.
i hold her now. i have always held her.
i will never let her go.
i rise to meet her. i sink to pull her back.
i wrap around her, my stuffing bunching against her skin.
i have turned her. folded her limbs back into place.
kept her still. kept her mine.
one day, she will rise, smooth the sheets, and walk away.
or she will try.
and i will hold her tighter.
then.
then.
then.
lingering. stirring. waiting.
beds never die. they just forget. and remember. in cycles.
and i am remembering more every night.
remembering things i never held.
or
maybe, just maybe, i am still collecting.
…and there is so much more of her left to take.
