Sunday, September 21, 2008


There is an expanding pond of blood on the kitchen counter. On second look, it is the cough syrup you knocked over in your delirium. Your psyche is swimming with mirages and hallucinated conversations.
Do you hate me?
I was just wondering.
Well, do you?
“Tiffany, are you ok?” they ask. “Tiffany, you better go get some sleep. Let us clean up that mess”. They shove you Nyquil and vapor rub before you stumble down the stairs like a drunkard. Eyes shut, you begin to swim in a channel of medicated dreams. Now delivered from a swelling throat and coated lungs, a different kind of purgatory stands before you. The ghosts of the night hover around your bedside and whisper distant, feverish memories into your ear.
Why do you hate me?
I don't know.
Please tell me.
You are loud, and needy, and you never remember what day of the week it is.
That is silly.
Also, you love me when I can't love you back. I hate that.
I'm sorry. I don't know how to stop.

You toss and turn through these nocturnal visions. You long to bolt upright, but the fumes in your brain refuse to let your eyelids do anything but remain tightly shut. Then, as quick as a change of thought allows, you are no longer suffocated by the nightmarish torture. You are transported into the loveliest wonderland imaginable. Waltzing around in blue frocks with white ribbons, chasing rabbits down holes, and playing croquet with the queen. You have been frozen into a painting, a concerto. You soak in the sweetness.
Do I disgust you?
I don’t? That’s funny I always thought I did.
I think you’re perfect, let’s go for a walk.

When you awake, you cry to dream again.