I Write Poems in My Bed

Because the outdoors scares me. I like the way my curtains hang— a little uneven. If I pull them the right way, the sun shines through them—appearing purple, even though they’re navy blue. Regardless, the sun highlights the beauty of my bedroom— glistening beads hanging from my closet, pictures hugging my walls, and lavender floating in the air. These features make me want to curl up in the corner of my bed, where the sun doesn’t shine, admire the beauty from a distance and jot down words or phrases. I sit just inches from the streak of sun shooting through the crack that I left open between the wall and curtain, that is actually a bed sheet, but nobody has said anything yet, because, I don’t let people in my bedroom. This is where I work and write and cry and hide from the monsters of the outside world. Not real monsters, but you know— arrogant antagonizing assholes who give me agoraphobia. I hear them coming from

behind my unevenly hung bed sheet where my window is cracked ever-so-slightly so I can get

a glimpse of what the real world is like. But I’d rather experience it second hand, in my bed, staring at the flowers printed on the fabric of my duvet, glowing from the iridescent ray of sunlight that is soon disappearing because the sun is setting, and winter is approaching.

The sun might not show for days, or even months. How am I supposed to write poems in my bed if there is no sun to shine on my fake flowers, no sun to make my hanging bed sheet appear purple, no sun to fuel my happiness to spark my ideas? For now, I’ll sit here, in my bed,

where the sun used to shine, where my thoughts used to ponder, where my happiness was found, where all my poems were written, here in my safe spot, I sit. Waiting for the single streak of sunlight to shine in and tell me that it’s ok to write poem in a chair with only a dimly lit lamp to spark my ideas.