A Made Bed

 for the first time in years

How long has it been
since I slept in a made bed?

Not in a hotel,
not on someone’s couch—
but mine.

I once told a friend—
your room reflects your mind.
His was spotless,
compulsively so.
I said it kindly,
but never said:
mine stayed closed,
a door I wouldn’t open.

The mess was my armor—
an excuse not to let anyone in.
No lovers,
just silence.
No visitors,
just the weight
of undone things
and a floor that knew my steps
better than anyone else.

Shame settled in like dust.
Corners curled with clothes
I never folded,
meals half-eaten,
nights half-lived.
I told myself
I was waiting
for the next adventure—
or the end of the story.

But tonight,
I hear the dishwasher hum,
the soft tumble of clean clothes,
the lull of white noise
rocking me gently toward sleep.

And I lie down
in a bed I made
with my own two hands.

And I ask, not bitter—
but a little in awe:

How long has it been
since I slept in a made bed?