Feral Kitty Dreams

Feral Kitty Dreams like road rash plague my sleep, every night for the past month. They scratch my eyes out, lap up my blood like milk and then fly away on their Oz-monkey wings. I do not wake at this point, I sit blind and crying from my empty eye sockets, the hollows itching, my eyelids caving when I blink them out of habit. I mourn my skin.

I woke up after that and he was sitting on top of me. He stole my breath and bruised my arms with his knees. I didn't struggle except to breathe and he breathed sourly into my mouth once or twice before smacking me and leaving the room. My eyes, still functioning in their sockets, visualize stabbing him repeatedly in the face.

Lemonade Stand Babies clamor for the change in my pocket, hidden bills in my locket. Pictures, no, I can't afford to carry pictures. If she finds me, rips the pictures away and sees who I love, she will kill them, spill their organs on the black-dirt ground. Hungry insects would swarm and crowd, buzzing loud, consume the innards on the ground. Until only bones are left and she would make them into handmade jewelry, sell them overpriced at folk-art festivals.

I stood in a sea of words, then. No, a hurricane of words, of dead baby jokes and screams of 'faggot'. Every word burning in my mind, evoking images that made me vomit until the acid made holes in my teeth like it was hot bacon grease poured onto styrofoam, making toxic fumes. I saw those sick pictures and I missed the cats who clawed out my eyes. I lie, though. Those thoughts were there before I ever heard them spoken.