Mattress Crucifixion

I care excessively. I care for meanings behind slight expressions, I care about language and how the words seem to recall the taste of sweet bakhlava as it melts on the core of my tongue; ever meticulous of the ratio of vowels to consonants; ever cautious of eyes that ravage hungrily in search of desire. I care about hinges of books and offer compensation to accidental paper tears. I care about the golden hue of sunsets dancing on glass window panes, the way it prods the edges of my lips into a smile on my way home. Home-— I care about home, and family, of relatives I've met only on the occasion of travels and whom after promising to keep in contact, I've let down. I care about strays and tightly chained horses, of squirrels that go days unfed, of people whom my short memory has wistfully forgotten. Of this, and so much more.

And so, I go to sleep every night, surrendered, my arms pinned by my sides, crucified on the cross of my mattress, vaguely aware that my caring has always been internal. 

My inevitable death will have the mantra of "overburdened" written on my gravestone; told to the nosy neighbors who's only ideal is knowing, sung to children I never bore. A caution; a reprimand to those who play on the brink of lending a hand, or turning a blind eye.