Rugs

I don’t remember my rug being so soft. Then again, how many times was my cheek ever pressed up against it? I run my fingers over its surface. Something is off. It’s not the right shade of brown. My head, pinned down by a dirty boot, can’t move. The screams outside grow louder. My head is pounding. My fingers move while I struggle to stay calm. It’s ok. This rug is wrong for a reason. My rug is made of jute, not burlap. 

Which can only mean one thing: this is all a dream.

I just have to wake up.

• Juliana Laury

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Carpets are fucking gross.

This should be some beautiful poem or funny anecdote about rugs, a metaphor

for work spent on something we’re only ever going to walk over.

But honestly? I’m just mad we ever moved from rugs to carpet.

Rugs can be CLEANED. They can be picked up and beaten and they don’t hoard

skin and bird seed and fur until you finally rip it all up and realize you should

have had HARD WOOD FLOORS with a GODDAMN RUG so your TOES ARE STILL

WARM.

... it doesn’t matter that much, I guess.

But carpets are fucking gross.

• Jordan Cunningham

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