i dreamt i was shot in the throat by a man who loved me. he cradled me gently, nestled beneath his quilted wings in the dim lampshade light of a Scottish hotel room when he put the steel in the notch above my clavicle. i dreamt i was shot more frequently in my younger years by an older man with jagged stubble and antifreeze eyes and a chilly smile, but the man who loved me was sun-soaked. my mother often tells me my throat turns red when i touch it.
relaying some experiences with a nightmare recently, to explain how paranoia feels