Bad dreams

When I was in high school, I had the uncanny skill of escaping to sleep when I was upset.

Now, it seems, my unconscious has something to say.

There are no more dead squirrels on my doorstep or tsunamis washing my city away. But there is an unending carousel of faces, many I loved, maybe worshiped, some betrayed. Most are books long completed and collecting dust on the shelf.

Something deep inside me is awake and warmongering. These are old wounds, rotted, ripping open the sutures tearing at sore skin. I am far away in waking hours, but at 3 a.m., I’m 18 again. She is searching, she is late, she is alone. I am lost, I am running, I have failed, I will receive a nonchalant rejection.

There’s a cavernous hole in my chest, but it’s soft, and heated. Why does it feel good to bathe in this poison?

The big warmth shakes me awake, though somehow, I don’t make it to the exit until I get up and drink some cold water.

When I was in high school, I was plagued with dreams about screaming without sound.

Now, when I scream, I wake up everyone in the house.