Sex and Murder Magazine

By Rhonda Parrish

The bed, soft, embracing
down-filled comforter of the purest white
stark in its cleanliness.
A mirror at its head reflects my face
Blood-spattered, dark with dirt
and the ashes of so many fires.
My hair is brushed
but filthy.
The water stopped running weeks ago.
Biting my lip, I taste salt, and iron.
The bed tempts me, beckons me but
I grab my sleeping bag
roll it out on the floor
while the prayer from my childhood
sing-songs through my mind.
Now I lay me down to sleep...