Bed Sheets

The very first time I bought my own bed sheets, I was nineteen. 

I know that this specific title is definitely going to make you think I am about to talk about sex.

I just want to get that out of the way.

I’m not here to talk about that, because while it’s something I’m not exactly a stranger to, sex took a surprisingly miniscule role in my life, for now.

Think about your bedsheets with me for a moment; what comes to mind? 

I think about the paint stains on the ledt corner from seeting a canvas that was wet there. It has no different texture, but the purple, yellow, red, and blue stains still remain. I love how bedsheets soak in your scent. No matter how many times you wash them, they never smell like just laundry detergent. And if you think yours only smell of detergent, let someone else smell them and prove you wrong. 

My bed sheets have seen alot of things. The good, the bad, and the ugly parts of me. Theyve seen me eat things and leave crumbs when I couldn’t even keep my old bones out of bed for more than an hour. Theyve seen tears, and they have seen blood. They’ve seen my mom when she invades my space and decides to lay on them. Theyve seen my love interests. Theyve seen it all from me. I used to live in this sea of fabric. The real world sucks, we all know it. It’s just so much easier to stay in bed. 

These grey, cheap sheets have heard my screams from nightmares. They were there for every single night I cried myself to sleep. They have probably seen me cry the most. See, not many people have seen me cry much. If you know me, really know me, then you still have probably only seen me cry a couple times. But in my bed? I’ve cried more than I can count. It’s a place of vulnerability. It’s a place where I have to feel safe, and sometimes I guess it’s my little therapy box, because I know I can let my guard down. 

I’m laying in bed and I just can’t stop thinking; I can’t be the only one.

Someone else is feeling just as cold, just as lonely as me. 

~A.F.