I cleaned my room today, and for the first time in months, I made my bed. Living in conditions where clothes, books and even my heart were strewn across the floor eclipsed the destroyed nature of my bed. Sheets once released from airtight packaging, now lay huddled shamefully at the foot of my bed. Their yellow color stained with misconception, masked deception and self-deprecation. Many nights I've tossed and turned tumultuously, sleep prohibited by the inability to breathe, to cry, to silence the insurrection of thought raging in my mind. Not too long ago, he pulled the sheets from my body, raping me of warmth and security. He left me vulnerable on the unmade bed, the material creating a cape that flapped menacingly in my face when he turned to leave. But today, I decided to make my bed. I reached for the sheets that were abandoned on the floor, draped across his shoulders and the ones binding your hands and feet. I smoothed the material across the mattress, tucking the corners carefully to keep them from coming undone. With the extra sheets gained from your freedom, I was able to create a complete palette... I've made my bed, and now I must lie in it. And I laid there peacefully, realizing how I'd appropriated your sense of security, of comfort. It was unfair of me to force your personality into palm of my hand, and hold it unremittingly as I tried to rock myself to sleep. I left you handicapped and until today, my own disabilities rendered me immobile. So now, as I lay alone in my immaculate surroundings, I can only apologize for forcing myself upon YOU.