#1468

In my dream I am asked to ID your body but I cannot bear to enter that cold room, not even to confirm or deny. I know it’s you and I know I should give you back your identity by naming you, but your daughter is a coward (how else do you explain these past seven years?). I can barely even look at these words now, can hardly bring myself to polish them up from a draft of a draft; how could I possibly stand to see you laid out on that table like a thing that never lived? But I should have. I should have given you that dignity, at least. You didn’t deserve to remain anonymous in my dream any more than you deserved to remain alone in that room in a reality I have been too terrified to claim as mine. I was a coward, and it changes nothing to be told you knew I loved you. I should have told you then. I should have gone into that room. I should have named you.

#1457

it feels like an ocean inside me
rising up, flooding every chamber
but that’s not what I dream about;
I dream about liquid fire
seismic cataclysm
and me screaming over the thunder;
about jet planes nosediving
falling from the sky like diseased birds dashing themselves on rocks
escape by suicide;
about crumbled cities
radiation
refugees and ghosts;
it seems these days
all my nightmares are about losing you

#1422

In my dream the ghosts reach out to you with electronic tendrils, seeping through the ether(net) to slip filament lies through your veins and into your brain, and even though I’m begging and pleading, yelling and screaming, I can see the digital glamour glow in your eyes and you’re already turning away, ears blocked by whispering static, fingers poised to craft a reply that will only feed the specters, only make them stronger.

#1412

dazed, soul aching and body craving, desperate for a hit, a fix, an escape, cessation culmination everythinganythingsomething, tired of useless alcohol and worthless drugs, no chance of reprieve there so he turns to pain, fresh and hot and searing like it used to be, can be again, palm flat on the table and fingers spread, he presses the barrel of the gun to the back of his hand and pulls the trigger

#1394

In my dreams the sorceress circles me, matted black hair and needles in her hands, they’ve been dipped in a poison far more fatal than Snow White’s, and I am calling for you as I move to keep the witch in my sights, she lunges but I catch her wrists and we struggle for dominance, the little metal slivers inching ever closer to my flesh until with a surge of defiance I hurl her back, enough to rock her on her feet and before she can close with me again you appear out of nowhere, sword in hand, and the sorceress’ head goes rolling off her shoulders–

–and then we are standing together, her and I, the sorceress resurrected, and she is showing me a sleeping kingdom wrapped in magic and thorns, a kingdom like her own which she offers to me, a gift, my very own land to rule as I wish, yet she is old and weak and I see this is her last attempt, she knows she can’t slay me but thinks maybe she can lure me away with promises of power and beauty, away from you whom I love so deeply, but I only scoff at her bribery and wake to seek you in a world where, too, the witches strive to part us yet never succeed.

#1374

They were saints, vessels of the gods, and so we buried them together, yet still the place remains cursed. The earth there recalls too readily the blood spilled in jealousy and betrayal, and the failure of those who witnessed the sacrilege yet were helpless to intervene. In our nightmares we still recall the phantom wailing heard when we entombed the lovers’ bones – they were not meant to be buried, we understand that now, but how could we have known our attempts at honor were torture instead? Sealed away from the light of Sun and Moon, their spirits remain trapped, and the retribution delivered to their murderer too little, too late to make amends. The White Saint avenged his slain lover, yes, but even as he plunged the blade into their Judas’ back we saw he too bled out and knew we would lose them both in the end. We have tried to bring their spirits peace, yet not even burning the traitor’s body eased their suffering. And so the place of their bloody burial remains haunted and barren, sacred to those who seek the restless saints’ blessing for a lover’s vengeance.