Dirty wrists (prelude to washing)

[Quinton Maxwell]

I have recently been cheating on my bed. Sometimes I sleep on the couch. I am wrecked by guilt. Everyday I can see it in the way it looks at me. I can feel its anxiety and the rising tension. We hardly speak anymore. I know my bed is waiting for me in the other room as I drift away on the sofa. I can hear it patiently waiting. I even envision it steadily watching the door, maybe glancing nervously at the clock. Just waiting. I think this can only go on for so much longer before it plans to kill me. Maybe poison. A poisonous place to lay.