Making the Bed

Only the sounds of birds chirping merrily and the radiant glow of my open window, slice into this peaceful summer morning.  I wake in this bed of sensation and regret, where shared passion erupted with another woman’s man, defiling white cotton sheets.
 I rise to make the bed still warm from a faceless stranger, with the scents of stale sex; spice and regret still lingering in their folds. Ripping the sheets off this bed of debauchery and shame to wash away the stains with soap and water what the night of decadence feasted upon.
 
Knowing my shame won’t be washed down a drain nor so easily cleaned, this stain across my heart and mind needs to be scrubbed clean with detergents, self-respect and self-esteem, so strong no stain can remain.
 
Replacing crisp new sheets to make this bed anew, so too does my thinking need to change. Tried of waking on soiled sheets with this persisting loneness, after having been some man’s mid-night treat, just so the night won’t find me alone.  I need to change the way I see myself, change my ideas and visions of who and what I want to be.
 
 I easily made this bed, but now it’s time to remake me.