My bed holds the secrets

My bed holds the secrets

that daylight was never meant to find.

Last night,

the darkness learned my name again.

I woke

not because the world was loud,

but because my heart

had remembered something

my mind had begged it to forget.

The room did not ask questions.

It simply watched

as I folded into myself

like a letter

no one was ever meant to read.

My pillow drank

every word my mouth refused to speak.

The sheets wrapped around me

like old ghosts

trying to convince me

that loneliness was the only thing

that had never lied.

Outside,

the moon kept its distance.

Inside,

time forgot how to move.

I counted the cracks in the ceiling

the way broken people

count the reasons

to survive until morning.

When dawn finally arrived,

it found an empty face

wearing yesterday’s smile.

No one noticed.

No one ever does.

Because grief is an artist.

It paints perfect disguises

before the world wakes up.

So tonight,

I’ll return

to the only witness

that has never betrayed me.

My bed.

The keeper of my tears.

The guardian

of my sleepless confessions.

Lay your hand

where I used to sleep…

You won’t find answers.

Only the warmth

of battles

no one ever saw.

Because my bed

still holds the secrets…

and daylight

has never been brave enough

to hear them.