An Invitation To Dreamland

4/29/22

I find that I have always died a little by Wednesday and my body becomes my coffin, my bed an abandoned tomb. On Sunday I find it within myself to sweep away the cobwebs and scrub away the dirt, but I have died all the same. So I press on and wonder how I will ever be able to live this life of little deaths and crawling back out of my grave again with stiff bones and rotting skin simply to carry on again.

How many times can I die these thousands of small deaths before I am reduced to nothing at all?

I can't see the stars anymore so I lay on the grass and watch the clouds of dust swirl over my town. Billions of tiny particles float gently down around me and coat every surface. I melt into the surroundings until I am indistinguishable from the ground.

I never feel angry, just deeply unsettled by this life and the constant feeling of my skin crawling. I wish I could peel it all back and scrub it out with bleach. Stuff all the holes in my being with marigolds and the torn out pages of all my bad poetry.