This room,

amidst the piercing crack of light shown through my charming window, is dark.

each night

i slide into bed, remade, after furiously washing my once spotless white sheets,

is stained.

still smeared from dark purple puddles of fine red wine that settle me to sleep.

Every morning,

i sip the strongest shot of coffee to stir me awake, stamping my sheets once more. 

my hands

with dried and bloodied knuckles, cracked from the scolding hot steam and scrub,

and heart

[ i ] try erasing the memory of love from my bed frame.

hurt.

|crs|