“Sleep on it.”

He said, “Yes, just sleep on it.”

How many times have I heard this over-rehearsed script?

“Goodnight. I still love you.”

I love you too, but let me tell you something.

My bed is no longer my own.

It is no longer welcoming and warm and comfortable and soft and safe.

It is now uneven and when I lie on it, it hurts my bones. These worries and problems are small, but deadly as they keep growing with time. They jab. They scratch. They bite. My skin is now a canvas of black and blue that cannot be seen but can be felt. There is constantly a slight burn in my bones.

Maybe that is why I have been having sleepless nights.

Because all these things that go unsaid are occupying too much space, and

My bed is no longer my own.

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