An alien in your bed
By J. Needham
You roll over and give me a closed-mouth smooch before turning off the lights. (Same time every night.) Once you begin snoring, I peel my face off and lay it atop my bedside table. (Same place every night.) I wonder how much longer I can do this for. (Same worry every night.) Peeling my face, setting it down, and applying it before you wake for work. (Same time every morning.) Maybe this year I’ll jostle your shoulder and let you see the real me—grey and oozing. (Same hope every night.)
But I don’t think you’d like her very much.
J. Needham is a cryptid who lives somewhere in the North with their fiancée and evil little dog. They love writing about queer people—both the inspiring heroic and pathetic morally grey kinds.
It feels like a domestic sitcom written by a tired monster — quietly grotesque, intimate, and very funny.
What makes it work is the contrast between the predictability of marriage and the casually horrific details, as if love is steady but the face is… optional.
Powerfull metaphor for masking in relationships. The repetition of 'same time every night' builds this unbearable routine where intimacy becomes pure performance. Had a freind describe coming out to their longterm partner with similar imagery about revealing the real self, wondering if love survives authenticity.