There is a pit gnawing at where the babies were supposed to be.
There are porcupines penciling in a soft warnings with their quills. They carve quietly into the chest of my old man.
They write hhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrr.
I collect pinecones in a pile by the bed and give them familiar names. That one’s George. This one’s Martha.
And this one is Matthew, or William, depending on the day. It’s never Matt or Bill or Billy though.
I like to think of myself as the kind of person who can hold my own in a conversation, without breaking apart like downtown concrete. I can name the things I like with something like a smile. I try not to talk about the things I don’t like.
I spend my nights breathing tight little sorrows and they sink into me like rapes. But it feels good to be breathing again, so I continue until I can stop thinking about doing it and it just happens.
When I sleep, it never feels like sleeping. I can never remember when the moment happens, when the day ends and the space between when then and morning continues, a rickety water I’m submerged in.
Sometimes, after I’ve tucked myself in and told myself to have a good night, the house swells like a stomach. My unpainted fingernails grip the blanket, which feels rubbery like a deflated balloon. After hours of this, the house lets loose a gigantic belch, and things go back to normal. I fall back asleep and stay that way until I wake up again, this time it’s morning.
I can’t remember the last time I had a dream.
But I have nightmares so real they have eyes.
