Faulty Taps

Dreams surface with filters and edits: mine come out gray scale. I sleep wearing clothes I do not own, with a face I do not own, a face that is not a face at all, but a grayish blur of flesh.

Did I dream it this way? I wonder.

I hold breath in, I remember the leaking, the endless leaking, I shiver. Cold washes over me. Not over me, but under, cold sweeps under my skin and over my bones and I shiver with an uncontrollable urge to laugh, as if I’m being tickled from the inside.

drip. drip. drip.

Even when I do not scream, I hurt.

The water will burn, my brain warns, and my skin quakes, premature. As if screaming now will save it pain in the future. The skin does not know: the pain comes anyway, scream now or later.

Insomnia

Some nights, you come real close. So close, you can taste the sleep, you can smell it. It smells like dripping saliva and warm cotton cloth.

In the dead of the night, the clock blinking at 2:43 a.m., you feel like a corpse dragged out from the grave. Immortality forced down a mortal.

You feel wrong.

When dreams die.

Today, you may have a purpose, a will to keep going, and it might vanish into thin air tomorrow, no warnings, no explanations.

I fear the day where I will not want to keep dreaming.

I fear the moment where I will stop and decide that it isn’t worth it.

I fear the empty-hearted, empty-eyed life I could live, if only I closed my eyes and slept.

Faith

Them, with their iron-clad blindness, leaping from the cliffs, coming back whole, euphoric. I saw it with my own eyes.

Us, with our memories, our scars, snickers and sneers.

Faith, this single, impenetrable divide, soaked in blood, brewed in death.

Paper doll

In the end, it is your heart that will guide the knife to your throat.

Vitesse

I run for pain, the excruciating burn of desire. I burn for the exquisite absence of thought.

Bare

Take my hand, and I promise you art.

You will be the canvas of my prose.

I’ll dip my pen into the ink of your eyes, and engrave myself onto your heart.