let's set up the scene.
flashes of conversation.
clips and key phrases.
but i can't even begin or finish a sentence without interruption,
because that would be far too good to be true.
it's like those dreams where you're screaming but nothing comes out.
the ones where you wake up terrified. sweating. sheets undone. bed a mess.
fighting in your sleep.
and so you'll sit very still, armed with technology, fighting off fatigue. coming up with any and every reason not to give in. or pace the room. or stay out far too late. or dance dance dance until the morning sends you to bed like the disciplinarian parent.
because, what's really happening, is that you are afraid to go back in there.
because silence is the court official swearing you in
and unlike those wagging tongues in waking life, your mind will be telling the truth.
the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
telling the truth about how you feel…
what you're afraid of…
what you want…
what you need…
what you think is going on…
because, somewhere along the way, the dreams stopped being flights of fancy.
the adventurous planes grounded and are robotic hands putting puzzles together.
taking the old radio apart and putting it back together.
trying a thousand lock combinations.
with the stress of a speed drill.
and it feels like mcgyver.
and just as absurd.
because it's this war with mistrust and cynicsm.
they lie about saying they don't lie.
they tell you you're rising above it,
and there's just a noose around your neck.
which kicks to scenes of the past where the trustworthy ones dwell.
and death stole him.
to new life even, sure. but stolen nonetheless.
and it echoes on those walls the reminder…
there is none to guard me from the frost.
there is none to arrest the trampling feet.
running like a fugitive.
karma has the wrong name, i think.
i tried to spell it out. i couldn't make her understand.
and then i'm all A.D.D.
and refusing to be a victim i stood up on shaky legs. took a step and fell…
wake up and resume dream.
and i'm wrapping my hands to throw punches and hurling bottles that won't break.
i turned to see him there in wait.
"let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth" i said.
"better than wine is your love." he said.
i was his lily among thorns.
he meant it, he said.
i was brave and vulnerable.
affection, like wine, fills you with a little courage.
and in the safety of an embrace, i am met with knives.
no one sees.
no one hears.
lack of evidence like tracks in falling snow
sabotaged by the plows in the morning.
blood-stained hands will go free.
now speak of foolishness to those childlike eyes that once believed
in those words that lost their meaning.
and only in your most condescending and apathetic tones so they fill with tears of shame.
i have met your cold shoulders and your blades.
do not send for me.
send them away.
[yes, all of them.]