You go outside to call your ex-girlfriend, whilst I cut your old foam mattress with a bread knife to make it fit your new bed.
I want to impress you. But my arms are so weak from hours of fucking you I can barely move the knife. I grapple the mattress, bending & curling it round this tiny space, holding it down with my knees whilst my inner thighs tremble.
Everything in here is damp from your sweat, our sweat. Sweat on old wood and tiny angular shelves. Sweat on badly painted ply walls, making fresh hot pink sticky in the afternoon sun. I feel like I’m in a Petri dish as the sun burns through this tiny room of windows. I wonder if I’ll get burnt alive as our bodies on fire scorch my retina or if these sweaty fluids will feed us forever.
The rocking of the boat brings me back to reality and the knife in my hand.
I can’t contain the tiny bits of foam, or my emotions. It feels like I’m ripping my own skin off as I unzip the mattress protector and force open my rib cage to expose my heart. My chest is heavy.
I wonder how love can weigh so much, stuck in the pits of memory foam, unable to climb out.