Dirty sheets.

There’s sand in my sheets tonight.

My skin burns from all the salt and my hair smells of the damp sea breeze.

You keep asking, ‘Honey, don’t you wanna clean up?’

And I keep saying, ‘Five more minutes, I promise, my love.’

You look at me one last time before walking out the door, leaving me lonely for the night.

But don’t worry about me, I’m not the victim in my story.

I’m still in bed, dressed in an old hockey jersey and nothing else, just soaking up the beach till I have to wash it all off.

You see, I grew up in a city by the sea, where it seems as if the ocean itself rains down upon us.

To no one’s surprise, I have always been fascinated by the beach, the waves and the rain. And also yellow streetlights. Mostly because back in high school, when I used to sneak out during rainy nights it seemed as if the whole city had been painted yellow.

Closing my eyes in my dirty bed, in this tiny apartment miles away from home brings back flashbacks of those wild nights. Running around barefoot on the wet streets, kissing in the pouring rain under those surreal streetlights, dancing in the dark with the chemicals in my veins; it was as if all the bodies on the floor moved together, feeling the heat as it engulfed the room.

So many stories in every club, every night. So many tear stained faces and unresolved scars of mascara.

The clock strikes twelve and my eyelids flutter open. My lover’s long gone, but we both know he’ll be back before dawn.

Gotta go wash my sheets and take a shower. Tomorrow is another night, another story. And I can’t let the salt on my unhealed scars stop that from happening.

6 thoughts on “Dirty sheets.

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