ode to my bed

Losing my bed that's been with me since I was a kid is unexpectedly even more painful than failing the test that I've been dreaming to take.

My bed was not just a bed.

It is a haven. 

A place where I can find peace even when I'm alone. Home I will unfailingly go back to no matter how far my feet take me. A pair of arms I can always throw myself into when I needed warmth so bad. A police station I constantly visit to report my bad decisions in life and where I voluntarily imprison myself for my crimes. My own version of a secret keeper who heard all my sobs and curses and the only one who'd seen me baptize myself with an ocean of tears every time a boy breaks my heart. 

You can take me to a number of rooms but I won't feel any difference if my bed is with me. It was my safe refuge, my comfort zone, and my own little space of security.

Now that I lost it, I feel like I become an orphan, a careless tourist, an abandoned pet, a wanderer, blank on where to go.

When will I be able to feel again the same comfort that I have felt for years?

That, I don't know.