To John Doe. With sarcasm.

The bed

You’ve always wanted me to reveal parts of myself without which I would have been naked. Naked by soul, by courage, by thought. “Reveal yourself”, you said and your voice didn’t even stumble, you didn’t hesitate watching me like I was some kind of victim. You said these words as you would have wanted me to open your birthday present and you know how senseless it is, don’t you? Because, of course, I already know what’s inside; it’s your lack of curiosity and interest towards me that’s keeping you so uncaring, so proud of your manhood. I cannot open my arms if they have nothing to hold, nobody to embrace and let’s face it, you know I don’t want just your flesh and bones, so don’t you dare bringing this up. It’s true you’ve let yourself so naively fall asleep on my brests, from time to time, with no erotic meaning, obviously, but that was all.

So do you think, mister John Doe, that it’s your flesh I crave for? Now you would really like to open this box I am and see what’s with this puzzling mind of mine, would you?

Step towards me, then. Be the man you’ve always said you are; oh, wait, what? You’re saying curiosity killed the cat, but you’re everything but a cat, my dear. Don’t ask me to be honest, don’t ask me to unveil my soul as if I wore a bedsheet to cover it. I am not a bed to sleep and lie down on, although at least, if I were, you would take off your shoes.

Maybe I should uncover this bed you most probably think I am; let you make it confortable for yourself, buy a new pillow for your head to lay on, change the sheets everytime you come home. But then again, that wouldn’t make me so “myself”, wouldn’t it?


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