These little monsters
Follow me around.
I need to run,
Outrun them now.

They run miles,
But never slow down.
Living in my head
Until I am dead.

Shall they follow me
To the grave?
Six feet under,
But there they lay.

Would they
Still have life,
If I am to die?
Would they still speak whispers
Into my mind?

For they are infested
Into mine.

But what am I thinking?
My enemy is me.
I am unkind to myself,
Left my senses to flee.

They are just a small
Depiction of myself.

For I am not them,
Nor anyone else.

parasomnia, or
this is the smell of my mouth. my pillow grows a body.
gets drunk on my drool/ licks my tears/
draws on my face/ plays with my hair/
pierces my ears. good boyfriend, i tell the pillow. i wish
we shared dreams.