Wednesday, July 12, 2017

3 AM

In my dreams,
not nightmares
my skin is peeling.
Dry rinds of seconds
and minutes and hours
and days and months
and years shedding,
their weight falling off.
My blood is vapour
and my muscles dust.
Borne on the wind.
Floating. Fine.
My bones are shards.
Opaque, scattered, broken.
Bright green grass grows
in my one intact eyesocket.
And my nonexistent mouth
laughs and laughs and laughs.
In my dreams,
not nightmares,
I am gone, I am nothing.

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