The living things
poured out of her clothes
and fell, writhed once
and died.
Each left a hole of a different
shape. Each had the color of dye,
and texture of shirt, or pants, or
hoodie, progressively,
underthings
With nothing conceivably
telling why. As all of these
people around were stood, but
milling or passing - not seeing
things. She can't cry
for help,
because then
they'd see. Attention
distracted from normal
and good, averted to horror
and shame
this brings - whose cause,
in a minute
shall not be explained.
Just fully exposed to discovery.
Cruel humor and shock. What
is she doing? Standing like that!
With -
their eyes peering down
- a circle
of strange, dead
colorful things
on the floor or the ground,
which cannot be turned back.
Cannot be put on.
It's horribly real
the whole time, and she knows
that it is going on. It's happened
before, she suddenly knows. So
familiar, these times. Sometimes
it occurs in the back of her mind,
as she goes about running dream
errands galore, and she drives it away,
back down to occur - not to her, not today.
And it doesn't.
It waits.
Then when she won't suspect,
it's the nightmare again. It will not
wake her up, because in the dream
on some level, she dreads
that she'd wake up a man.
Some horrors in life are worth
living through,
so as not to wake up
from who we shall be,
if we get through them.
No comments:
Post a Comment