The Drowning Bed

It sloshes when no one moves.

It breathes when no one should.

It waits.

—

The mattress shifts beneath your weight,

A sluggish pulse, a thing that waits.

The salesman smiled, his fingers pruned—

How long, you wonder, had he been consumed?

—

The first night’s still, the water cold,

A dreamless dark that takes ahold.

But as you sink in midnight’s clutch,

Something beneath begins to touch.

—

Not a ripple.

Not a wave.

A hand.

—

It drags like seaweed, slick and thin,

With fingers boneless, stretched like skin.

They trace your spine, they stroke your side,

They find your throat, they slip inside.

—

The water thickens, dense as rot,

A syrup flow, a stomach’s clot.

You twist, you writhe, but it won’t break,

The bed’s awake. The bed’s awake.

—

The mattress bulges, something climbs,

A swollen shape with empty eyes.

Its lips unhinge, its jaw unseams,

And gulps your air like stolen dreams.

—

You wake—or think you do—gasping loud,

But the bed still churns, the bed still drowns.

A leeching weight, a tethered throat,

A night where bodies bloat and float.

—

And when they find you days too late,

The coroner will hesitate.

For lungs aren’t meant to hold the tide,

And yet—your corpse is full inside.