The Scaffolding Above My Bed

My bed is surrounded by a web of scaffolding, metal branches twisting this way and that toward a wooden ceiling. It is mountain water in my mouth, rich with minerals and frigid from melting snow. It claps like thunder on a misty, damp day, the asphalt on the pavement mixing with rain. The school bus rolls over it, scooch, pebbles and odd bits of sand scatter. Bike tires roll over it, leaving behind the sticky scent of rubber. Feet roll over it, crunch; they’re my feet, and these shoes are so worn I can stick my toe out the sides. 

I dangle upside-down from the scaffolding, my legs curved over the sharply cold metal, calves turning white with the strain. My head goes crimson as my brain fills with a storm of sticky stringy thoughts that stretch like taffy, the metal splintering them and supporting them simultaneously. At bedtime it holds me close like a cage. It scrapes and clunks and echoes. Its voice reverberates hollow and tense, my fingertips strumming methodically on its spine. It does not rest at night when I do.