It waits until the lights flicker out and the silence gets thick,
then the frame groans soft like it’s choosing who to pick.
The mattress exhales in a rhythm far too slow,
and the sheets start to tighten like they already know.
The springs don’t squeak, they hiss like veins,
twisting and coiling through phantom chains.
The pillow sinks deeper the more I try to breathe,
and the mattress shifts beneath me like something with teeth.
I laid down once and it bit my thigh just beneath the skin,
left a half-moon bruise shaped like a crescent grin.
They say I must’ve tossed in sleep, but they don’t see the mark–
the place where it tasted me, slow and dark.
It’s the bed that bites back–soft as sin,
it drags you down from the outside in.
You don’t fall asleep–you get claimed instead,
by the snarling hunger tucked under the bed.
The nurses laugh when I beg them to let me sleep on the floor,
say, “He’s got nightmares again, it’s best to just ignore.”
But I hear the frame creak as soon as they turn the light,
and the headboard breathes heavier when I lose the fight.
They gave me my sedatives to help me sleep through this hell,
but the bed purred louder like it knew me too well.
The sheets wrapped tight like a tongue on skin,
and whispered, “Lie still, let me pull you in.”
I saw it cough up a shoe and a watch with someone’s name,
and a wedding ring still warm from blame.
The mattress peeled open like a stitched-up grin,
and chuckled soft as it sucked me in.
Now I lie perfectly still, count the cracks in the ceiling tile,
while the bed growls slow, like it’s waiting awhile.
It doesn’t rush–it savors its prey,
takes little bites of your soul each day.
And if you find my voice gone slack,
just know the bed finally bit back.
Let it keep me–bones and black–
because I never really wanted to come back.