Bed Ridden

Comfort, it means so much to me.

The comfort of my bed each morning, begging me to stay just a moment more.

Or the comfort of my mother's arms around me. Holding me.

The comfort of the womb. Before it all. Before everything.

The comfort of trust, mutual trust.

The comfort of being myself, by myself

The comfort of being myself, publicly

The comfort of my own skin wrapped around me

The comfort of being cared for, the comfort of being accepted, of being loved.

The discomfort means more.

The discomfort when I look in a mirror

The discomfort when I fail

The discomfort when I'm not myself

The discomfort when I question who I am

The discomfort when I grieve

The discomfort of being a prisoner in this skin

Is this all life is? Change calling you from comfort, tragedy calling you back. Two states repeated like torture. The longing for the comfort you can no longer feel. You can't crawl back into the womb, you can't escape your skin, and you can't feel your mother's arms around you anymore. So the bed, it holds you, its comfort is close enough. It will do. And when you feel brave enough, when you feel better. You face the discomfort again.

10/09/20