Venting

My fist clenched, eyes narrowed, hair askew I approached my bed My victim reclined on the sheets Soft and unsuspecting The perfect object of my embrace and comfort Of sweet falsehoods, of hot-blooded tears shed for absolute nonsense I pounced upon my bed Threw blow after blow at the poor thing Muffled thumps whispered in protest I threw blow after blow at the poor thing Until my knuckles blushed bright red I threw blow after blow at the poor thing Until feathers pierced my fingers It lay, limp and unsuspecting Battered and faded It cushioned me as I fell breathless from every jab and every curse I uttered I no longer deserved such lies It deserved its exposure A scissor blade in hand, without the courtesy to snip I rammed it into the poor thing and slashed it open The gash vomited light, white wisps that showered the bed And nestled in my hair I paused to look at such destruction of That which submissively cradled my head each night That which yielded to my touch That which never returned my embraces That which never spoke at all How pathetic. And still so sympathetic. Shaking off the feathers, I gathered my Sheets and comfort and all into a ball And placed them in the washer. For good.