a/n: another one that i didn't like.

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tell me of the dream when

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you were dead, or dying. or was it real? i confuse
surreality with truth, unless they
are the same thing. you had, then, black eyes
and fingernails, moon-gleaming teeth and cheeks
rampaged by spits of fire
you lay on a sterile hospital bed, breathed in cheerful
cyanide, and i kissed you, feeding you arsenic as
per request

you tasted like nailpolish remover, like
vodka-burn, like pills, dry and thin. i was haunted
by your kaleidoscope-vision, right eye unwracked
with guilt, the left,
desire. and you, love, were full of faith and fire and
i detested the sight
of your happiness.

i dreamed we went together to your
funeral, and you kissed yourself good-night, chewing
all the while white
marble chips off the gravestone. ground them to
powder and reached for more. as it rotted skin and
your white jaw ground
white stone, rapidly darkening flesh
confusedly giving way.

love, i confuse surreality with truth, but they
are the same thing. i dreamed of your face, i heard
you speak a stationary sea, and
you were two halves of a paper spirit welded
together, and vicious. i saw you eat color and it
melded into skin, until you laughed pink-purple
and you were
absolutely beautiful.