Nights I Dream of Things Not Living
Nights I dream about broken mirrors,
sex with a woman, eating my own flesh.
I read about my heart, I touch myself.
I look at the stars and try to remember
that they are dead. I am talking to myself again.
I make lists of things to do:
1.) don’t kill yourself.
Nights I dream I open my mouth
and all of my teeth are falling out.
I go to your house, I want to give them
to you but you are not home. I dream
I am young again, hiding in a bathroom,
a bruise’s black wing
spread across my cheeks.
I look for you—
across the water, I listen for you
inside seashells. I want to give you
Nights I dream I am my father,
petrified in sleep; a wolf's jaws
crystallizing around my brittle bones,
I wake up favoring a leg that has not
shattered yet, I wake up vomiting,
I wake up and count my teeth,
lick my wounds, always licking
I bury my head
in the sand, but it doesn’t
help. I am practicing saying
you are dead.
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