Response To Samuel Couch Dents '

Couch Dents by Samuel Piedmonte She sits down on the living room’s faded blue couch and turns on the TV—to turn off the landscape of thoughts—dealing with the swirling. Her body needs a reset, but it’s yelling way too loud. Tell no one about it. Tell no one about it. She gets up for a glass of water, the tap’s broken and she gives up, thinking she was thirsty. With the empty glass, she toasts the dilemma in silence.

Her stomach’s talking and she tells herself she isn’t hungry. She eats her nails for dinner and lets go of the day she’s had, and the things that failed to fall into her hopeless lap.

She can’t wait to go to sleep, to dream, to live out a life she actually has a chance to forget about–one she can, at-least slightly, want to try to remember when she wakes up. Anything besides real life. I wish I didn’t have to be someone.

On this particular night, a simple
Usually she’d wash the utensil and dish, the water isn’t running, but she is from something. Exit signs are my friend. She finds out her toilet won’t flush either—the thoughts swirl. I don’t think I’m built for this. She sits still and feels small—the feeling of a 4x4 photograph. As if the colors from it are fading fast. What happened to coloring me? Maybe I can change that. Looking out, across the empty shelves and cardboard boxes, she ate her fingernails. She reminisces back to the country roads she road down, the cotton color candy bike she traded that camera in for. Take me there. Take me there. Shortly, she sits back down on the yardsale purchased and well weathered couch. The faded blue cushions are dented, permanently. Memory foam can only sink and rise so many times before a cushion calls for it to quit. Too far away from the world. Worn down by the weight of time. Release. The. Release. The. Release. The. The cushion won’t reverberate or bounce back. There’s no chance of that—but perhaps she