Poetry

Bed of Nails

By T. G. Bianco

Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.com

Laying on a bed of nails,
I mustn’t move or budge.
Every breath I take draws blood.
Why am I on a bed of nails?
It’s quite simple,
I . . .
was . . .
born.
Born with a mind that couldn’t give a shit,
If any chance I had of happiness was cast into a pit.
Born into a family home,
were the family dog was the only one who showed me love.
Everyone else pecks at me as if they were possessed by a demonic crow.
So here I lay on a bed of nails,
the only home I’ll ever know.
Laying on a bed of nails,
my back, arms and legs are scarred.
Thank goodness, I’ve finally gone numb,
like Aunty Rob after a bottle of rum.
Gazing up into a sky of sorrow,
fear makes it hard to swallow.
I hold my breath.
I clench my fists.
Feel a pulse inside my wrists.
I roll off my bed of nails into an ocean of tears.
Sinking upwards,
towards an arched doorway.
My life will fade away.
There’s no need for me to stay.
The arched doors open wide,
inviting me inside.
All I can see is white light,
bright as can be.
Oh shit! What have I done?
The family dog will be the only one,
who will miss me.
How selfish I have been.

Categories: Poetry

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