There are some days I think
what if
I'm still upside down on a sofa
in a tilted doll house,
a man clinging to the walls
lest he'd fall out the windows
and drown in the rain
or
I jumped into the river
when it asked,
rinsed my bloody hands
from the blades of southern grass
and tortured ex lovers.
From a distance
there is a woman's voice
not quite my own
she's saying
wake up
you've been dreaming for as long
as you can remember
but you are no friend of sleep.
The rain is jarring.
You'll drown in it, they jest,
and I have.
My earliest dreams were of downpours,
a Monetian blur
on grasses and trees.
My first hallucination bloomed from a fever--
I was a child, spotlit in a bed.
around me, single fingers tapped
in rhythm, deliberating.
I begged them to stop
in a language unspoken
by anyone, anywhere.
I still see them,
the ghosts of my periphery
and I've yet to speak in a dream.
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