Ever since I moved in with
an old friend from High School
and his girlfriend I've got
nonstop texts from my grandmother
asking if I'm okay, if I need any fresh
water from the well, and am I
getting a full night's rest. As much
as I'd like to say no, because it's the truth,
instead I say yes, because the truth
would hurl me back into
a place where personal space
doesn't exist. A couple of years before leaving,
I went to a friend's house down the street.
I had left my laptop open; it was still on
website I frequent on the loneliest of nights.
I remember the blood curling screams; the howling
for me to come back and explain why there
were guys doing questionable things to dead girls.
Telling my grandmother those girls were just
playing dead didn't wipe that scowl off her face;
it only made things worse. She canceled our
internet service provider and made me give
my laptop to my older cousin Nick.
It isn't so bad here. My roommates smoke ***,
play video games and most importantly don't
ask where I am going or what I'm doing
on the weekend. I like it. I could get used to it.
My phone vibrates almost every hour. But I'm
getting used to not answering every text. Sometimes
I feel guilty for imagining my grandmother dead;
sometimes I let the thought delve further into darkness
and imagine terrible things being done to her. It isn't
that I don't love her. I think I love her too much.
When I'm tossing like a fish out of water
in cold sweats; I wake up and lie there, breathing,
trying not to swallow my tongue; and like clockwork
the AC comes on and hums a little tune, as though it
were only meant for me. I mumble along until
I fall back asleep. I dream the same dream.
I'm small again. And I'm chasing a thousand
dragonflies through a nameless field
somewhere in the Midwest.

Anywhere, really.