sweet dreams

Sometimes I want to slash my throat and release every bubble, every cloud, every burst of moonlight within me and be done with dreams.
Sometimes I want to axe my head until it’s wide open, until I hear the flutter of the blue butterfly and the purple birds’ wings, until I can laugh at the passion behind the sounds they make as they escape from my brain.
The sounds drift. They drift as swiftly as the sand between my teeth does when I swallow; they drift as slowly as the melting rocks in the corners of my eyes does when I cry.
The life that is a dream ambles away. But because I’m so fucking stupid I lay on my bed, spread concrete across my broken skull, and stitch my torn scalp.
I wrap my neck with duct tape and I hunt down every animal of a dream I had set loose. I make three meals out of them, make a cake out of the butterflies. And I go to sleep to dream of a beautiful story to tell -a majestic evasion of the pain that is me as a dreamer.


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