It crawls down from the attic when it needs to feed.
Moves toward my bed while I shake in my sleep.
I wake up from a blood-let dream,
and static blurs out everything.
The colors leak into puddles that stain my feet.
I watch a screen that's stuck buffering
and ask what's reflecting if it's worth it to be
when my heart beats this thing that stings.
When foaming fangs have a taste for me,
and this sick feeling's got a hold on me*,
when every inhaled breath
goes down like force-fed sand,
can I trust what speaks in my head?
Throughout the nights that I've half-hoped
to choke on my own breath,
but then woke up again, propelled by something
in my chest that streams this waking dream
through every part of me
in hope to put some color back
in these transparent things.
And I'm afraid that the puddles will swell above my mouth and drown what's left of myself. But I can hear it echoing: a stubborn pulse, this last ditched belief in buoyancy. If it's pain or sleep just let me bleed.
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