They wanted to know about my nightmares. I asked, 'which ones?'
'All of them', they said.
It's always the hill first. Halfway up the pavement
turns to porridge. Sometimes that's as far as I get.
The house is in the woods, some nights deeper than others. I'm looking for something I can't remember. Escher stairs and baseboard panic, the kind
you see before you feel. I apologize for being out of breath. I apologize for being there.
Then at the airport. I want to leave but
there are things to take care of. I buy a sleeve of Mambas. I sit on the floor and wait.
Threats masquerade as good decisions. I wake up salty and ragged, avoid the mirror like it will show on my face. I don't feel brave but I must be, to return to sleep every night, to that empty house full of strangers.
I wake up bathed
in chilly sweat that smells like tears. I stand in the shower and think 'is this what you wanted'? I think, 'these are your dreams'. I think, 'they should be better'.
Some nights there are stairs. Sometimes they creak. Sometimes they are rotted straight through.
How dark
is this place I’ve made. In the morning I vow to add lights but night
falls and I feel along in the shadows again.
I tell lies about sleep to make it look bad. It does not evade me. I duck its advances until I have no options left. Until it takes me by surprise.
I wake up looking for the things I misplaced. I pat myself down, for what I left behind in the dark.
