Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • My dresser, much like my life, is falling apart.

    There are items glued on in an attempt to make it more aesthetic, but the project never got finished so it just looks tacky. In addition, each item is falling off one by one, springing toward any freedom they can get from the big, bulky, black-and-blue monstrosity they are attached to.

    The hand cut mirror is off by a quarter inch in some places, and it's dirty and there are giant scratches running through it.

    The drawers stick sometimes when pulled and the cobalt blue glass handles threaten to come off. Not to mention the wreck that is the clothes inside each drawer. Tossed in unceremoniously for the owner doesn't have time to fold them, for she has to go and do nothing important, laze around and disappoint people all day.

    I am my dresser, and my dresser

    is me.

    I make tacky attempts to make myself seem more than I am. More interesting, more funny, more sarcastic, more angry, more anything that will draw you closer to me. I am a poser.

    Most of the time I just want to morph into a bear and hibernate, never waking, not even to eat. At least I would lose some weight that way.

    I constantly let everyone down. I am late to everything unless it involves myself and a commitment I've made. I don't care about what others plans are and how mine might affect theirs.

    I am hideous, inside and out. I only hit a compassionate streak once in a while, but I am good at playing pretend.

    I should pack up and leave today. I am no good to anyone or anything. I couldn't keep a goldfish alive. I don't know why anyone would hire me. I am good at masking it all, until you dig in and find what's underneath.

    I don't want words of encouragement, or "you can do it. you can get throughs". I want to die alone in my sleep, for with my sleep I am acquainted very well.

    Perhaps I will be with you or you will be with me, in my dreams, but truly, I will be alone... In reality. Just the way I want... Just the way I care for.

    Maybe I would write a note saying I'm sorry to my family and friends, for letting them down once again. One colossal let-down, the crowning glory of them all. I left, and left you here, because I didn't care how my plans would affect yours.

    I don't, really, or so I'm told.

    I'm told a lot of things. People tell me I'm like gold. Warm, metallic, attractive, talented, beautiful, compassionate, even tempered, priceless. These are things they feel about me. But that is my façade. I would tell them otherwise, repair their delusion, but I let my off-hewn mirror do most of the talking.

    I don't want to breathe, or think, or compose, or write, or love, or hate, or eat or sleep anymore. I especially abhors sleep. I cannot stand it. Sleep is my best friend and my worst enemy.

    I feel sick with it most times. Needing it desperately, never getting enough, and getting too much and never wanting to sleep again. Sleep is my escape. It is my drug, my drink, my mindless and detached fuck, and my lover all at once.

    Sleep is my substitute for reality, where I go when I can't handle life anymore.

    I would like to die in my sleep, because it would remove me from living permanently and effortlessly. I wouldn't feel it. I would be dreaming of whatever troubled adults dream of these days.

    Love and lust, money and fame, horror and happiness, kisses and hugs, feeling wanted and feeling hated, feeling worthless and feeling priceless, feeling everything and remembering nothing.

    I would dream the most colossal dream for the most colossal let-down. Then I would sink down and down until I thought it could get no darker, until I found myself in hell, riding atop Cerberus into eternity.

    I would kiss the skeletal face of the ferry master Charon, thanking him for the ride across the River Styx, that infamous River of Hate. I would travel the length of Hades on bare feet, the turn tail and travel back.

    It would never end, and occasionally I would meet someone I had known on Earth, who had failed at living their life too... We would nod or simper, murmur goodbye instead of hello, and then be on our mournful way. That sounds good to me.

    I would like to die in my sleep for it seems like a peaceful and passive way to go.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.