This Poem Is About My Bed

This poem is about my bed.
My bed is a totem that keeps me tethered
Like roots are to plants that are blooming
Full of earth and sweet notes of mint and honey.

My bed is a drunk driver trying to find itself
On it's way to the fridge half past midnight
Opening the door, closing the door, opening the door
And closing the door realizing we already ate the leftovers.
They were not very good.

My bed is a bad breakup reminiscing about:
Black lipstick, green eyes, pale skin
Which mirrors the moon outside in it's duality;
In it's ability to be present, yet unreachable.

My bed is a casket, except there's nobody inside
No hole in the ground for it to belong to
Yet I'm trapped, covered in glossy film
The warmth of every tear shed over the things
That I cannot change, that I wouldn't ever fix
Lulled eventually to rest with a familiar thought:

Maybe I should get a new bed.