I fell asleep sad last night, sad about things that weren’t said, about being in the shadows and hearing only mangled whispers, forcing me to invent, imagine in dramatic poetic endings. That is what poets do when not given words, we make them up, even if they aren’t accurate reflections of anything except of the landscapes we see on the inside of our eyelids when we sleep.
Last night when I slept, I had a dream that I was inside a fiery explosion that burned 96% of my body. I was ashamed. I didn’t want to tell anyone, not even my mother of the charred skin I hid beneath my clothes.Then I found myself in a dark room, that was some sort of a zoo, except there were no cages, just hanging glass frames of animals moving up and down.
What is left after 96% of your skin is burned? Do you move inside and burn what’s left inside the body cavity, destroy any working organs? And then after that? Can you burn your soul down to nothing? Ash to be discarded, blown away.
Sometimes I wish for miserable complacency again. For not knowing hope cuz then you want too much.