The oddest casualty of the apocalypse so far has been my Ikea® sheets,
Purchased at a time when I still thought neon and polka dots were cool
And signed SAT words with love in the margins of my first love’s Mickey Mouse notebooks
And couldn’t drive a car or keep a secret
And started shaving down my eyebrows because a scrawny future frat star told me they were weird.
When I left in august I tucked the sheets military-style
under the mattress in a room carefully bleached of personality. They could keep my place
when my mom came into sniff the pillow at night missing my head
While it was off getting stuffed with liberal cries and queer anger,
Pink Moscato fumes and the 2. a.m. whispers of my dearest friends.
The day I stumbled back home I kicked a hole straight through the fabric
And it frayed as I frayed.
Three weeks into stagnancy the sheets are shredded
With the agony of a fairy-tale beast first given a mirror.
Their pattern is updated with Rorschach blots of coffee and hot sauce
And the places where I bunched them between my thighs
When I tried to forget that cravings these days stop at hugs.
When hours are inches and the sun is a ceiling fan
I don’t mind if stray gauze pins my feet.
When my pillow wheezes in pneumonic protest per punch
At least it proves that my body exists.
My wild years are on hold
And I will maybe never get to debauch my childhood bedroom
With someone whose legs are too long for a flat twin mattress but just long enough for my waist
Or put my daughter to sleep under the shadows of my old posters
To snooze away the haze of a holiday dinner.
Such is the wear and tear
Of a tenant since outgrown
Her illusion of pristine.