under my mattress
There are things I hide under my mattress.
Just the phrase makes me blush, like its not a big deal.
After that, I start to remember fondly some of the things lost down there, sweet things that just slipped away.
And we laugh, and we laugh…
But then I start thinking about all those things I didn't want to find; the things that make my stomach grow restless and convulsions push through my body like they're attempting mutiny.
I remember why I hid them under there in the first place, and why they should stay there.
But we laugh…
And we forget…
And I'm glad we forget… or at least you forget…
As much as I hate to admit it, I have to go under there sometimes and hold the guilt to me.
It's all I have left of you.
The you I remember.
I don't want to let it go.
Doesn't matter.
And then I start thinking I don't matter, and all those stereotypical things I hate to feel but can't help it.
I can't help but fear one day you'll put me under there, and leave me there with stale air and bitter memory, and you'll forget about me altogether, unwanted and undesirable.
Every night I'll sleep under you.
And you'll forget me…
And when I tell you, you laugh, and tell me not to be so silly.
And we laugh…
And we forget…