a bed of nails

Photo by Aron Schmitz on Unsplash

I wasn’t told the bed was ready

Found me in it, lying

On spikes and lying

to, and in spite of myself

Each nail made of

a fantasy, a supposition,

a subconscious desire

of a comforting future as

unyielding as the pricks

Pricks of a thousand deaths

nails on the coffin

of a heart, broken

and dreams tender

Monks lie on these, it does not hurt,

their weight

distributed evenly

a divine balance

I am not a monk

at fault in daring

to be human

to pray love and regret

the audacity for it

I hurt, each pinprick

excruciatingly real

yet so disparate from

every another

Does this serve

a purpose, I ask

Futile, to myself

A punishment, perhaps

Or a wake-up call

Discomfort holding

hands with despair

pain abounds

as I wail

asking for nothing more

but to go back to

the comfort of familiarity

Take me back to

my own bed

its not the best,

but least allows rest

with not a thousand cuts, reminders

but just one

That while not perfect,

the love, my crime

it was something real

meaningful yet empty

ethereal and abundant

unbeknownst to my

conscious self

I will not get

that relief I learn —

this bed of nails

all night to yearn

in shame and hope

and a sliver of faith.

Giving in I forget

how long this will take,

morning awaits somewhat

assured I lay

Funny the pain,

though numbs my skin

pierces my heart all over,

and my soul and being

Pitifully so

I feel each stab

wounds acute

each nail

potent as the next

Nails of anger

of sadness and envy

of jealousy, betrayal

of frustration, terror

disturbing, surreal

To have felt so deeply

so strongly, so truly

a big sandcastle

built of mistakes

or a thousand

small claws in the sand

each a gift

a part of myself

given unconditionally

to be taken by waves

Unknowingly so

into this bed

those nails were nailed

by me? or who

as surely as

the rising sun

Grief so strong

vividly experienced

shamelessly, ritually,

deserved or not

does it matter?

Troubled, enraged

livid, miserable

numb yet spent

trapped, depressed

With discomfort therein

some hope blooms

can’t be besides myself

forever

A mirror, shattered

yet functional

behind the eyelids

disappearing on sight

It shows a new him to me

born anew

scarred by the nails but

intact, in full

Dramatic, perhaps

sure, the fall of man

can arise reborn

more alive than before?

Or a breathing corpse

proverbially stuck

on a bed of nails

too shocked to move

Its incisive I think

and smart too

to believe that not

to assume the truth

Aware of unfairness

au fait with conviction

may he not be belittled

know better than to

allow for his soul again

to suffer so hard

Seething in hope

as I rise inevitable

promising my worth

to not belie my strength

I walk again now

a tapestry of red

of blues, of suffering

colorful still

Who replaced my bed back then

why or what

did it mean

as pointless as the meaning

of life it now feels

Perhaps a pointed poke

someday again may serve a reminder

what it was once to

be lying

on a bed of nails

made for two

shared by one