Dream I keep having

I’m sleeping in the dirt under a tree. You kissed my eyes good night and said, “I will see you in the mourning.”  The aborted fetuses of fallen angels hang from the branches. Their holy blood dripping on my face wakes me. I look around for you, but can’t remember your face. I hear angry shouts in the distance. I remember what I’ve done and run. I hear their footsteps getting louder. I run through a forest of shortcomings and mistakes. Piles of old clothes and dirty plates. Tear  stained televisions headlines  and love letters with no return address. The lies in the history books are pretty. It’s all they can see.  I’m lost, but I wander these woods. I get dizzy as look around. No clearing in sight. My regrets hang over me. It’s a thick fog. All I can think is that it’s me, who let them down.  How can I blame it on some apple that you ate?

Suddenly, I’m climbing up a hill that turns into a pile of jack-in-a-boxes. Nervously scrambling my way to the top. Hoping to reach an escape, without being flung down to my end. I feel like I’ve been here before. How could I forget? I look down at my legs. They are chained, crippled with disease. I will never forgive you for this. I can’t pull myself up to the next box. I’m lying there, anticipating when the joker will make a fool out of me. Too terrified to even exhale. I’m flung up in the air and fall into the mud. I look around for somewhere to hide. The flowers are laughing at me. I feel a pinch and look at my arm. There are bugs crawling and biting me under my skin. I hear your avengers getting closer. The bugs feast on my bones. I’m unable to move. I hear laughter. Monsters with torches surround me. Wait, they are not monsters. They are men wearing mirror masks. I couldn’t recognize my own reflections, until I saw the only good part of me, the scars you left.

They take me to our hometown. Nothing looks familiar. There is a stage with a guillotine in the center of the square. Hundreds of people are chained together in line, waiting their turn. I’m dragged across the ground of broken glass to the front of the line. The cuts remind me of your touch. People cheer as I’m tossed on stage. I cried, “Please tell me, I’m not dying, I’m not dying!”  The crowd can see my sickness. They tried to love me, but they failed. I’m dying. My life is nothing but time borrowed that I forget to return.   My executioner places the bag over my head and places me in the guillotine. I can feel the world’s eyes fixed on me. He tells me, “It will be alright, I promise.” He is the only one who pities me.  I can’t help, but feel a little relief that I’m being set free. I hear the blade drop and laugh loud, “Good luck,  She never did wash the blood of her hands. Remember?”

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