Preface: This poem was written during my first two weeks here at Southern Illinois University-Carbondale. I had a theory that when I went away too school that I would never sleep alone again. But, I was wrong because it’s very possible to sleep in the same bed with someone and still sleep alone. The events that occurred in this poem have happened to me. I’m in no way proud of the events that occurred, so therefore I have written a poem that captures these emotions. And hopefully someone else can relate to the piece and don’t have to feel alone. But, I am no way shape or form asking for anyone’s pity upon me. I am a adult who now knows the consequences of my actions.

 

 

 

Mama warned me…about sleeping in a man’s bed.

The one’s that squeak whenever I switched side to feel his heavy breathing on my neck.

With soft lips that would nibble on my ear.

And in the midst of a heated session when the room reeks of sex and my hair is sweated back.

And I reach over to check the time on my phone.

I sit up in his bed stare into the darkness to try to find my dignity.

But, I can’t find it so I close my eyes and fall back into the bed sheets where I pray that when he is through with me…

That he lets me sleep in his bed, because I hate sleeping alone but even if he lets me lay there, I still sleep alone.

Because he won’t hold me half as tight after I have had sex with him.

And he will turn his back to me and lay with eyes wide open wishing I would just leave.

And I lay there in my oversize t-shirt with my bra on and my favorite pair of Victoria Secret Lace backs and I think about the shit daddy warned me about.

That some men only want sex and will tell you anything for 7 minutes of pleasure.

That would have lasted longer if he loved me and maybe if his stroke would have been more passionate or, or, or we would have made love in the light.

So he could see the excitement in my eyes and my legs begin to shake.

Maybe if he knew how much I hated sleeping alone.

And I’m addicted to lying in beds with arms holding me half as tight as they should be.

And kisses that hurt in the morning because I know that this will never amount to the love I expected to find in a back room romance that captivates your mind with good conversation and un-breaks the chains of years of the lies that I still hold onto.

Because I am afraid to move on in the right direction.

And I pray that our relationship turns cinematic so I can tell a good man story.

And someone to tell me that they loved me for everything I wasn’t.

And everything I have yet to become.

But, I’m too scared to admit that I found love in the words that told my secrets.

And fell in love with the pen and paper.

And I only put up with half the shit I shouldn’t just to hear a thunderous applause in a room full of people who question their existence after a break-up.

I wish I would have listened to mama, but I’m pretty damn sure I wouldn’t have been able to tell you the truth…

That I’m an addict for finding love in dusty corners of a man’s heart hoping that I find another story to write about so you all can relate to it.

And sing my song of sexual escapades that have gone wrong but make for a damn good story to tell in the midst of a conversation with my girlfriends on a hot summer night.

Because I just want to be able to say that I have rode all the rides at the amusement park and test drove every car on the lot.

Before I give up my Saturday nights and sweet neck kisses that get me high off of a spiritual crack pipe that leads me to no man’s land.

Where I am allowed to dance freely with all sorts of men who I deem attractive enough to become my bed buddy and my sunshine after all of my previous warnings.

Because I didn’t listen to mama and I found the love I was looking for in a bed with no warnings.