Nightmares and Past Lives

Dear Dm,

For the last few days I have been filled with stories of us. Stories of the lives we have shared and stories of my own design. Last night was a tragedy. As with all dreams it began in the middle and branched out from there. It was the story of a mentally ill woman who attempted suicide after a breakup (a breakup that began with a kiss on the lips and a warm hug). I was that young woman. Difficult. Tortured. Manipulative. Naive. Selfish. You were the young man. I wish that she/I had stood there and listened to all that you would say. You said to the best of my recollection. “I’m not sure if my life is better now. I think I liked my life better before.” She/I did not listen. She/I stormed off while shouting something spiteful like “fine return to your old life then and forget about me.” She found a pair of scissors in an empty library. She fled down a staircase past children selling drugs. She pushed open countless doors. Doors without knobs. Doors with no rooms between them. Doors with only darkness. She found a space deep within her labyrinth of doors and slit her wrists vertically.

“How did you find me?” She asked feeling herself lifted. “I always know where you are.”

The next she woke in a hospital bed. You stood at the far end of the room or rather she sensed you. Your voice was soft. I don’t remember your words. In the final scene she sits in front of a dirty vanity mirror. She’s outside and the country landscape is exquisite. There is a nurse beside her instructing her to clean the glass. She scrubs and scrubs but cannot find any reflections in the mirror. The nurse admonishes her to use gloves when cleaning, otherwise she will never get the mirror clean. She passes out and into your arms.

I woke from this dream very upset. When I think of it now perhaps she was in a mental asylum all along. The children selling drugs might have only been patients lining up for their medication. The gloves might have represented the need to set boundaries. The endless row of doors might have been the doors of her own mind, of every futile effort to save herself without relying on anyone else. I do not know if you were a visitor, a caretaker, or a figment of her imagination. I do not know if she only imagined you in the faces of others because deep down she longed for you to return and save her. I do not know if she imagined the whole relationship. I do not know what happened because I was in the mind of a troubled young woman and I couldn’t see beyond it. Perhaps you did find her and save her and then moved on because she wouldn’t or couldn’t follow you back to the world. Maybe you were there beside her every moment.

I decided to finish the story, to fill it out, to rewrite the tragedy. In my dream you end the relationship because your friends and family don’t approve and she doesn’t fit into society much less into your life. You want to be happy and she is messy and complicated. In my version you visit everyday. You brush her hair because she likes it and it gives you something to do in that, sometimes, too quiet room. You kiss her brow, her hair, her hands. When she is happy and coherent you kiss her mouth. You hold her while she sobs and she clings to your clothes gently. At first she is silent, withdrawn but by degrees she begins to talk and to listen. The days pass and she gets stronger and then one day she turns to you and says “I’m glad we are friends.” She still does not know that you love her and in what way you love her and her obliviousness hurts. Then again it is possible that you have never told her what was in your heart. So you show her and notice that she reciprocates even without knowing all that is in your heart and bit by bit you start to speak more freely with her. You speak and she listens. Then when she is stable you convince her parents to release her to your custody. You marry her. She is a terrible cook and she isn’t much of a housekeeper but you love each other. You meet each other half-way. Somewhere between insanity and sensibility. You gain wings and she in turn gains roots. You realize that you are both human, both innocent and you forgive. You forgive so that can live and love more deeply.

Perhaps another day I will tell you a different story, one that hurts less in the middle.

I love you. I will learn to listen. I will ask for help. I will offer a hand. I’ll live as fully as I possibly can whatever happens. And I will forgive. You. Me. The Situation.

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Love Letter #11

Dear DM,

I am a vessel of craving. I am a frightened child. Last night I had a very strange dream from which I woke up exhausted. It began simply enough. I wanted to get a hold of a copy of Peter Pan. I have only read the version for children. Is there another version? A sinister version? The dream itself had very little to do with Peter Pan as I have known it. I remember a dark-haired girl who referred to herself as Wendy but not what became of her. My sister and I came upon a crocodile (upright like a man, shadowy) in the forest very suddenly and I ran away screaming. I left my sister, to “handle” the situation on her own. I think I shoved her in front of it or maybe I shoved the crocodile away from myself onto her? I can’t remember. I only know that as I went running backwards through a dark forest, accelerated by some invisible force, I did not feel too good about myself. By force I mean to say something or someone drug me away from the scene.

Everything else I can say about the dream is conjecture. I remember a small cabin in the forest that I took to be my family home. I am not sure if I had already moved into another household or if I was attempting to join another household. Through marriage? Through occupation? There was a woman (a stepmother or mother-in-law type figure) who tried to dictate all aspects of my life. She told me what to feel, to eat, to do, to say. She wanted me to tone down my intelligence. She was grooming me in order to protect me. She seemed to think that I had a disease and that only through restraint could I keep the badness from getting in or out.

The dream was set a couple of hundred years in the past (a past life?). Was I sick? Possessed? Wicked? I don’t remember feeling anything to suggest I was actually possessed. I think I was just eccentric, egocentric, frightened. My sister/sister-in-law was trying to protect me from the mother-figure (I am not sure if this was the same sister from the crocodile betrayal). She didn’t buy into all that superstition about possession/mysterious diseases and was making arrangements for me to leave. She had friends. I also remember a game of hide and seek in the dark forest. I followed my sister but she would not let me hide with her. I can’t remember the reason she gave. I am not sure if the game took place before or after dinner. Dinner was meager and I remember asking if I could have a little bread. My sister gave over what may well have been her piece. I notice in dreams that sometimes you appear and help me out. I can’t help but think you were in that dream.

I have concluded that this dream was about releasing the story-line. There is a version of us within every one we have ever met. A caricature shaped by the individual’s experiences, opinions, and feelings. These versions of ourselves can remain imprinted upon a person long after we have outgrown them. People can become very possessive of their version and often feel threatened/betrayed when we behave in ways that challenge their expectations. Even positive changes can be seen as a betrayal or a possible prelude to abandonment.

When my grandmother was living in a nursing home my mother called her every day. My grandmother was nearly deaf and refused to get a hearing aid so she couldn’t hear my mom over the phone. My mom noticed after a while that whatever she said to my grandmother, my grandmother would always give exactly the same answers, in the same order (she was anticipating the conversation to compensate for being deaf). If my grandmother heard something other than what she expected to hear she would become upset/distressed. She needed the feeling of having a stress-free, familiar conversation/the comfort of feeling my mom on the other side of the phone. So my mom learned to ask questions that coincided with my grandmother’s answers. At first this annoyed my mom but after a while she found it oddly comforting (she never had to think up anything new or interesting to say or to worry about getting into a disagreement). They went from fighting constantly to having lovely, albeit scripted conversations. 

We all live our life’s in this way to some extent because it is safe/comforting, because it reduces confrontation, and feelings of vulnerability. It is also part of learning. No one wants to relearn to brush their teeth every day! The problem really kicks in when the role assigned hurts your self-esteem. I find myself falling into certain roles. Victim. Misfit. Failure. Scatter-brain. Sometimes we assign these identities to ourselves.

Sometimes I think the reason we do this is simply to avoid owning our feelings. We create a sort of trash bin version of ourselves into which we shovel all of our guilt and insecurities/all of the criticisms and pain. After a time this alter ego becomes more sentient. Suddenly we don’t just have temporary, growth-inducing discomforts, we have a bottomless pit of despair. Another us. A wounded self that has lived their whole lives eating our negative emotions and experiences. Only our love will fill/release this self but we look for fixes elsewhere.

We could forgive them. We could apologize to them. We could thank them for their service and let them choose to return either to us or to the wellspring of creation from whence they came but instead we continue to punish them, shame them, lock them in the metaphorical closet whenever we are entertaining good company. Whenever we attempt to change ourselves our scapegoated selves feel threatened/rejected. They know that when we get all pseudo perfect that we will do everything in our power to oppress them or snuff them out of existence. In the end though we just shovel more unwanted shit onto them because uncomfortable emotions are rarely accepted into our idealized versions of ourselves. We manufacture happiness because actual happiness requires an acceptance of change/of our wounded selves and that is scary.

The thing is these “selves” have extraordinary reserves of creativity, compassion, and experience. They have seen some shit. They feel deeply. They both soften us and strengthen us. This is what I am working on at the moment. Getting to know myself moment to moment rather than slapping on labels. I am learning how to live with my feelings and my “selves”. How to walk, live, breath, and create truth. How to take responsibility for my own happiness/my own experiences. How to stop justifying myself whenever someone threatens my identity or reinforces one of my closeted identities. How to let go of the story-lines and the what ifs and the moments I can’t change and the desire to change/mold others so they fit within my definition of them. How to stop trying to anticipate the answers and enjoy the exploration phase. I am learning to honor my cycles.

I realize this letter is not very romantic. I am just figuring things out. I realize that I can’t reason away my faults and feelings. Have you ever seen shows where a nonhuman entity attempts to appear more human? I sometimes feel that way. Like I am just going along working out what it means to be human because deep down I am totally enamoured with the human race. The human experience is fucking amazing. At the end of day I really just want permission to be my ever-evolving, fluid as water, lighter than air self. 

This whole journey has awakened a lot of alien feelings within me, new feelings, feelings even more intense than my usual feelings. Sometimes when I close my eyes and feel you, it’s like a solar system is being born into a space not bigger than my fist. Each time it happens I know the seams/definitions holding me together get a little looser and I learn a little bit more about myself. My naked soul bleeds through the cracks. The light comes in. My metaphorical heart opens and expands. You are more than enough. You are fucking gorgeous.

With everything I am your DF

Lucid Dreaming Tips

I have been meaning to write this blog for a while. So here goes my tips for Lucid Dreaming!

 

  1. Practice mindfulness. Throughout the day check in with yourself/become your own personal narrator. Describe how you are feeling. Describe in detail what you are doing presently. Describe your environment paying special attention to each of your senses. State your intentions/goals for the day. If possible speak out loud. Point out anything beautiful/intriguing/unusual that you happen to come across throughout your day. Get in the habit of asking yourself questions. Breathe consciously. Feel yourself inside of your body. For many people it helps to set a specific cue to test for wakefulness. I bite my tongue or cheek.
  2. Practice mindfulness when asleep. This will be much easier if you have established the habit in your waking life. Ask lots of questions! Fact check with yourself. Who am I? When is my birthday? Where am I? Approach the characters in your dream. Unlike in real life dream characters will sometimes struggle to provide basic information particularly about their identities. They may also give nonsensical or nonstandard answers to basic questions such as “What is your name?” and “How are you doing?”
  3. Check in with your senses. If you notice that your senses are impaired this can be a good indication that you are in an altered state of consciousness.
  4. Once you have identified that something weird is going on. Try asking yourself “Is this a dream?” Usually the question alone is enough to elicit awareness. I ask myself this when I am awake and spaced out as well. Once you feel pretty sure that you are asleep, say confidently “This is a dream.” Just saying those words should leave you feeling pretty empowered.
  5. Once you have established that you are asleep, focus on your body. Focus on your feet in particular. Imagine the ground underneath them as solid. In dreams it’s suggested that you float around, don’t float walk (you can fly later).
  6. Once you have centered yourself and you’re comfortable in your dream body then you can start exploring. Before you change anything I recommend exploring the dream in progress. I find it difficult to stay asleep during a lucid dream because of the heightened sensory input. You need to give yourself time to adjust.
  7. Before you make major changes start with smaller changes. Explore what your body can do. Try jumping really high or flying around.
  8. If you want to dream about a specific person, invite them into your dream. Say it out loud before bed and then in the dream ask for them by name. Ask the dream characters if they have seen so and so or if they are so and so. Look for so and so behind doors and in various places you might expect to find them, maybe in places where you have met them in real life. Call them or text them in the dream and invite them to a location just as you would in real life. Consent is important even in a dream! Always treat them with respect.
  9. To manipulate the content of your dream it is important for you to understand what type of learner you are. I am a read/write learner which means that if I want to program myself to dream about a certain thing it works better if I write down in detail what I want to dream about or if I read about the places I would like to visit during the day (for some it works best to do it right before bed). If you are a visual learner you will have a lot more success looking at pictures or watching movies. Obviously it helps if you can visualize well in your waking life. The more senses you can recruit in your visualizations the better but for those of you who are very one-sided, one-tract learners like me you can achieve faster results by focusing on what you are best at.
  10. It can be enough to simply state your destination in the dream. “I want to go to Paris.” Your brain should already have plenty of stored information about Paris to aid you in your re-creation. 
  11. Ask the dream characters to perform certain actions and/or favors for you. Dream characters can get stuck on a script and be somewhat inflexible like NPCs in a game so you might not have much luck talking to them in an active/conscious way but stating what you want can still help it to manifest.
  12. Meditate daily. I have a lot of success using Lucid Dreaming Meditation Music which can be found on Youtube.
  13. Keep a dream journal. Keeping a dream journal can give you little insights and clues that will aid you in detecting dreams, it also sends a message to your brain that dreams are important and worth remembering.

 

Special Notes Nightmares

 

  1. The first step is to create a safe haven for yourself during your daily meditation practice. This can be an actual place or an imagined place. During the day whenever you are feeling stressed take a time out and visit your safe haven for a few minutes. With enough practice you will be able to visit your safe haven when asleep. You can also try closing your eyes within the dream and calling up a happy memory.
  2. Go into the dream knowing every character you meet is yourself (unless you have invited someone into the dream and this isn’t really possible unless you have a special bond). 
  3. When possible take the opportunity to do a little trauma therapy. The “villain” in any dream is just a wounded and/or neglected part of yourself. Ask them questions in a genuine attempt to get to know them better. Invite them back into your life. If possible attempt to brighten the space they are in (open the blinds, turn on the light, take them to a location with lots of natural light). Offer them comfort (a hug, a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, an ear if they want to talk). Offer forgiveness/acceptance. If at some point doing your therapy session you discover that they represent a younger version of yourself treat them as you would any child you wish to bond with and comfort.
  4. If someone is chasing you say “Goodbye” and walk away normally. If you scream or run they will just pursue you. If you come upon a terrifying scene close the door and move on.
  5. Say “I don’t like this dream. I want to dream of something else.” This works wonders for me.
  6. Use humor to diffuse the situation. If a villain is chasing me I will stop, turn around and run after them instead. You could even try turning it into a game by tapping them on the shoulder and saying “Tag your it!”
  7. Confuse them. Kiss or tickle them when they least expect it. Be prepared though if you kiss them they can occasionally turn quite amorous.
  8. If you’re really not feeling the dream vibes use lucid dreaming to change the scene altogether or simply wake up and try again! If the dream is really scary I will stay awake for several minutes before returning to sleep. If you wake up on your back, roll over. Sleeping on my back does improve my chances of lucid dreaming but I am also more likely to have nightmares when sleeping on my back.
  9. So what happens if the bad guy attacks you? Talk to them if you can try to deescalate the situation. If you can’t just kick their ass. It’s your dream and in a dream your power is unlimited.

Whirligig 1

1 Whirl

I have a suitcase full of birdsongs
and parables that shave fathoms
from the cracks in my cardiac skeins.
However, careful I keep running
into the same exhausted disputes.

Your smile is only a shrug,
and I think I might have missed it.
When I have had enough
I am sure to want for something else,
this is what it means to be human.

Fruit of God, fruit proffered by Lucifer
I eat of your sodden flesh
but my eyes do not open.
Surely there can be no crime
in a trusting nature, in a chance given.
I am a war, two feet pounding the earth.
Who, if not myself, can I save?

I wasn’t sure I’d be able to write today. Those of you who read my blog regularly know that I suffer with PTSD. One of my triggers is waking to find someone standing at my bedroom door or waking to find that someone has entered my bedroom unexpectedly (my dad used to sneak into my room and molest me). I am a fairly light sleeper and so often I hear my daughter when she gets up well before she gets to our room. On hearing her I wake and I remind myself as she approaches that it is only Isadora. I still feel a sense of dread/agitation but so long as I am awake I can keep my shit reasonably together. The problem is when I don’t hear her coming up, when I am in a dead sleep and all of a sudden the door opens. That happened last night. I totally lost it. I was in a very deep sleep and I couldn’t even open my eyes though I could clearly hear someone was in the room. In my mind it felt like I was in a very long tunnel and I was fighting to reach the light at the end. I heard a scream, a horrible scream but I didn’t know I was the one screaming and so I started screaming louder. My heart was pounding, I was sweating profusely, and my whole body just filled with adrenalin. I was honestly terrified, it wasn’t a normal fear, it was a bone-scrapping, blood-curdling terror. I lay in bed for a while sort of trapped in a nightmare. When I did get up to go to the bathroom I felt extremely dizzy, I couldn’t even stand. The dizziness and the adrenalin sickness has continued all day. I was able to talk to Isadora this morning about what happened. It has happened before and she seems to understand that I am not screaming at her, that I am not angry or anything.

Writing Prompt #117 NoEnd House Part 2″ and Wordle #142

Compact

A cornflower sky folds

Behind a pair of captive mirrors.

The first to arrive

Often goes home alone.

(if at all)

Struck by the indifference

Of my own meager expectations

I wait, a bit of flesh

A filigree of scars,

Graven by the same hand

Meant to erase them.

I chew my index finger

Off at the root,

A spare key furnished

Of might and desperation.

Locked out, noncommittal

My lone heart sits ajar.

I chase doors as they form

In the caress of your eyes,

In the scarlet of worried lips.

A room swarms with echoes.

I thought I could pack you

Into my open wounds

But, however deep, the blood

Always seeps through.

I carry your heartache

In my unwashed skin

In the organs

Soft and unapproachable

Like metaphorical fruit.

My perfect dreams

Unraveling in the wake

Of a patient nightmare.

142

for

https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2015/07/26/writing-prompt-117-noend-house-part-2%E2%80%B3/

Method

DSCN1254

There is a method

To every plausible form

Of madness,

A gestation, whereby the heart

Is wrung free

Of all anesthetic

An eruption

Where the darkness escapes

Unculled by the liturgical filter

A renunciation of all known variables.

Emptiness becomes a priority

A means of sobriety.

The exodus, once initiated

May continue for years.

 

I am drenched in the floods

Of an ejaculating dam.

The words have lept

From my flesh

Like viral impediments

There is only the pain

The tightening of scars

Into a visceral skein

There is no use

In the laying of hands

I have survived,

That is my miracle

To wake each morning

Intact despite infestation.

 

If I were braver

The demons would blur

Beneath my insistence

But those demons

Are my perceptions

They will go on living

Alongside me

So long as I believe

Stolen 7

Wheelchair

Does time succumb to itself as all things must or is it merely a transparency? A recursive jest into which all men needlessly fall? I was 23 and still living at home. I had the means to acquire separate lodgings but my father’s health delayed their acquisition.

I bear such a strong resemblance to my father that I cannot offer a judgment as to his appearance that is not in some way biased by my own insecurities. I can only say that his illness had altered him unfavorably. His black eyes were all but ensconced behind his cheekbones. How the geography of his face could shift in such a traumatic fashion I cannot say but it was not for want of research. The webbing between his fingers had risen to the first knuckle and no matter how often we pruned his flesh it continued to grow back thicker. Though I knew not the etiology of his ailment I knew that eventually his hands would be swallowed by the metastasizing flesh. I knew that his eyes would soon disappear for each day his vision grew dimmer for impediments. A surgeon without eyes or hands was a detriment to his profession, he could not be reconciled. Had he been able he might have killed himself. He had started to use a wheelchair though I could detect no deformity that might account for the sudden loss of mobility. I only knew that when he stood his body gave way beneath him. He was only 55, his bones were still strong, his muscles still firm and pronounced I did not know if his weakness was of the mind or if gravity itself had betrayed him.

“Open the chest..” We stood in the basement, in my father’s room. I had been here many times now with consent though always in his presence. The chest he pointed too was the same one that I had refused to open as a child. My palms began to sweat, my heart took on notes of hysteria. I felt just as I had all those years ago and yet I offered no audible objections. I stood stupidly for a long while as if I could not comprehend my limbs well enough to articulate a purposeful activity. I moved but it was only to shift my weight.

“Come now Eli…I didn’t raise you to be a coward…” He motioned a stump in the direction of what I knew was a coffin. Inside there would be another meatless corpse, another body of meager and unfortunate proportions. I knew that those bones would resemble my father, what he was becoming and that I needed to see them in order to understand what was to come. Was this to be my future as well?

I opened the chest and inside were the bodies of two creatures, their bones were partially fused. I could not tell if they were human but I knew that they had never lived outside of the womb. The bodies were small, each one only slighter larger than my palm. Their bones were nearly translucent and I felt that if I touched them I might irreparably alter their shape. The skulls and hands of the fetuses were deformed just as Elizabeths’ were and more completely than my fathers.

The names inside the casket read “Elijah and Elizabeth…” Elizabeth was the name of the child in the adjacent box. My name was Elijah just like my father though no one referred to me such. “I don’t understand…who are these children?” My father wheeled his chair closer, so close that his knee brushed my elbow. “Those bones…” He kicked the chest with his foot causing the lid to fall and my heart to jump into my throat.

“They belong to you…and the sister you murdered…” My father’s breath smelled strongly of wine but he did not slur his words. “You’re drunk…” I said coldly though I could not verify one way or the other from his comportment. “I am not drunk…I only pretend to be an alcoholic around you and your mother…do you really think I’d sabotage my career over a petty vice…no son I was never a mean drunk…I am simply an asshole…” My father retorted.

“Then your mad the illness has gotten inside of you…eaten away that brain your so proud of…” I answered and though I tried to sound assertive my father’s words had shaken me. Was the reason I could see ghosts really that simple? Had I killed my sister for nutrients and then died in the refuse of her flesh?

“These are your children then? The babies she lost…the one’s that weren’t normal? My siblings? Why do they all have the same name?” I demanded. My father rarely employed humor but if ever he did I imagined it would be cruel.

“Would you rather that I called you Elijah Number 2?” My father snapped as if the entire topic was somehow beneath his consideration.

“You’re a heartless bastard….” The words came out underneath my breath and in a tone I did not recognize.

“If I were completely heartless I never would have married your mother…that woman was a pointless distraction but a distraction with which I could not part.” I didn’t want to talk anymore, my emotions had a reached an impasse. I was conflicted. My jaw gripped, my hands gripped. If I could have willed myself into stone I would have done so but I could not render myself into a compatible state of stoicism.

“To answer you previous question…they were our children…though they never amounted to much as you can see…your mother and I were not genetically compatible…that’s what makes you such an achievement Eli…” I felt sick to my stomach though I had nothing to exhale having eaten nothing recently. I felt my vision tear at the corners, the elongated images sliding apart reluctantly. I knew that I spoke but not what I said, only that it sounded to my ears as an incantation. I wanted nothing more than to erase my father from existence.

“Eli….Eli wake up….you’re scaring me…” Thyme’s voice was frantic, her white hands gripped my shoulders. I faced the closet door, my posture wooden, at some point during the night I had sat up. The closet door was wide open and though it was pitch black in the room I could see the X clearly. Was it an impression or did the symbol emit radiance? I caught the very end of my demonic mutterings but I could not decipher the words. “Who are you talking too?” I laid my hand on top of Thyme’s to console her. It was not a hand at all but a shovel made of flesh and bone.

I sat up in bed covered in sweat, I patted the mattress beside me but it was empty. Where had she gone? Did I have the dates confused? Had we even met yet? The sheets still smelled of her but they were ice cold.

The door opened suddenly uprooting my heart. My father stepped inside switching on the light, it was not unusual for him to impose on my sleep but he’d never done so when in company. He wore a tailored suit as was his custom, his thick black hair was combed neatly, it was the middle of the night or so I surmised from the black windows. “I need your help to move a body…get dressed….” I grabbed my pants not worrying about exposure because I knew my father would not wait for a reply. Though I could not recall my dream the sight of him both angered and terrified me.

“Where is she?” I demanded. My father made a face which bellied his impatience. “Who do you speak of Eli?”

*

I honestly can’t believe I have written so much of this story. I had some heinous nightmares last night because of it though.

The Real Monster (warning disturbing deals with child abuse)

Freddy-Krueger-Wide-Wallpapers-Dekstop

My mom doesn’t understand why I no longer eat dinner in her company. Why I take my plate to my room and return hungry with empty dishes. She doesn’t notice the stench. The uneaten food rotting inside my closet’s counterfeit womb.

 

His name is Freddy and I saw him in a movie. Adults can’t see him. I’ve tried to make friends with him. Even monsters need to eat. If your nice to people they’ll be nice to you, at least that’s what they say in church. In practice I haven’t been able to make it work. I must be bad on the inside.

 

“Freddy’s gonna get me…” I look over my shoulder at mom while we’re watching television. She comes over and kneels beside me. Can she see him too? I don’t understand her questions, only her fear. I should comfort her. I don’t want her to get mad she’ll pull my hair or worse hold her hand over my mouth and nose until I can’t breathe anymore. Freddy’s more of a bogeyman than a person. Sometimes I see him on television and often when I sleep. Well technically I don’t see him because it’s too dark but I know he’s there. She seems relieved. I don’t feel better for having told her. If anything I feel worse. He’ll punish me for telling on him. I wonder if he can hear us talking from the other world? I wonder if he can hear my thoughts even when I’m awake? I wonder if he knows how much I hate him and if that scares him just a little?

—–

“What happens if he gets hungry?” I tug on my mom’s sleeve. She’s scooping up the waste from several days worth of uneaten dinners. She seems more startled than angry. She doesn’t even spank me despite the mess.

 

“What have you done? The food will attract roaches…” The smell is really awful. I feel sick. I can tell from my mom’s expression that she doesn’t “hear” me. “Freddy can’t hurt you…he’s not real…you’re just having bad dreams…” I let her clean the closet without interfering, the food wasn’t really working anyways.

 

I know that Freddy’s real, that my dreams are real. His breath smells like ash and there’s blood from where he cuts me inside. I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to anger him anymore than I already have. I have to be a good girl and when I am good enough bad things won’t happen. God will take me to heaven when I am good enough.

*

This happened when I was about 4 I was terrified of Freddy Krueger from the Nightmare on Elmstreet films (which I was allowed to watch). I now know that it was a real life monster attacking me in my sleep, my father but at that time I simply could not process the situation. The pain, the smell of ash (Freddy’s burnt and my dad is a smoker), the fact that it was happening to me in my sleep my child mind invented an alternate explanation. I was religious as a child.

Written for

Tale Weaver Prompt #1

Fine, thanks

gaslight2

A capricious sun begets

Adumbral voyeurs

I sleep with fear,

With inconsolable wraiths

Pinned into the lascivious corners

Of my prevaricating smile,

I am fine thank you for asking,

Never mind the culling

Of my beleaguered eyes

Cerebral expenditure only,

Rest-assured I do not cry

*

My daughter has been home sick this week and I haven’t been able to complete a single thought. No sleep, no delicately articulated dreams, no peace whatsoever. Sam is working on the E-book but I do hope you will consider purchasing the actual paperback. In my humble opinion poetry should be intimate, it should be held. Also the book will be available for Amazon in the future. If anyone would like to help with the marketing that would be enormously appreciated I have no idea what I am doing and I fear I am not sufficiently outgoing.  If you have published books what has worked for you?

Making Monsters

charlestondoor

Softened by a whimsical palate and sealed

In vacancy there was a time when shadows

Slipped from that carnivorous aperture, from

The hostile shock of pomegranate within, so

Unlike the soft pastels without. You, father,

With your reptilian eyes have disguised yourself

Well within its darkness, within those closet-dwelling

Fiends in which I came so tenaciously to believe

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Supernatural, psychological, nightmares

For which I swore you could not be blamed

But I have seen you raven-cloaked in the dead

Of night, cancerous silhouette, dislocating from

The walls to slink invertebrate into my bedroom

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It was self-preservation that led me to fashion

Monsters on your behalf, better my own madness

Than a sickness capable of unmaking the world

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I am reading this book that deals with childhood trauma so I find myself writing a bit more darkly

Submission for Magpie Tales

The Mag