Crossed Out

I dream that there is a circle of salt around my bed;
that my windows are lined with it; that it burns dimly
underneath my fingernails.
I dream that there are angels outside my window,
only I do not call them angels anymore,
and their hungry mouths are singing silver songs
to my grandmother’s cross and I still know all the words.
I am wearing a nightgown, though I do not own a nightgown,
and my hands are clenched in the same sheets
I slept in as a five year old; their faded flowers have all
turned brown and stink of rot I am not sure I can smell.
I do not think I am dreaming — I think I am hallucinating.
That my body has turned to a glass bottle
a boy swears he sent out to sea for me with a message
I would never read stuck in my throat —
I want to say Help me. Or Save me.
Or What the fuck? But all that comes out is I love you.
I love you. I love you.
I dream that light spills in from under the door,
floods in through the cracks — I dream that same light
shines out of me; burst from between my teeth,
leaking through the tear ducts.
The angels are clawing at the windows,
only I do not call them angels anymore,
I do not call them anything.
They are clawing at the windows, their blood blocking
out the white that fights to shine in.
They are singing silvers songs to my grandmother’s cross,
and I sing along.
I still know all the words.
I do not think I am dreaming — I think I am remembering.

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1 comment
  1. thefeatheredsleep said:

    This is totally brilliant! ♡

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