When I was a little girl
Monsters used to sing to me at night.
They would stalk closer and closer to my bed,
With their soothing lullabies,
Waiting for me to fall asleep
So they could tear at my soul
With their nasty teeth
And swallow it, bit by bit.

Every night I tried to hear past them,
And listen to the angels outside my window.
They said they could protect me
With their songs about sweet dreams.
But when I did sleep,
The dreams were never sweet.
(Yes, even angels lie.)

In my dreams I stood by the sea,
Staring out over a cliff.
My tears would fall with the rain,
Until I jumped to an icy death.
I was murdered in a dark alley.
I was eaten alive by bugs.
I was drowned in someone's bathtub.
I was ***** by demons I couldn't see.
I was buried alive and tore off my fingernails
Trying to claw out of my own casket.

(Who the **** dreams this as a child?!)

I'm all grown up, and I know now that
The monsters in my life aren't the ones
That try to sing me to sleep.
The angels in my life aren't the ones
That lie about sweet dreams.

But even now,
With my half-eaten soul,
I never know what lies in the darkness
Or how I'll die when I fall asleep tonight.

Scream loud as possible into a freshly washed pillow still soaked with dreams of snakes and her face and friends who don't give a ****.
Raging against self-inflicted wounds wrought by the subconscious.
Two weeks later and infested again.
Muffled yells at half-volume to deal with it.
Manifested from fears like that kid from my nightmare last year with the macaroni in his hair.
I'm still haunted by it.
Feel that wrench in the stomach like an egg-beater twisting my guts.
Scream as loud as I can into a pillow twice-washed.

Punch the walls, feed the host, burn the demons, starve the ghost.
Scream without a filter and break all the windows.

Sleeping again but it never ends; never stops, never quits or gives in.
Always creeping below the surface.
What did I do to deserve this?
Screaming into a pillow thrice-washed.
Laugh at the clock and make friends with the dark.

Burn the walls, starve the host, please the demons, feed the ghost.
Bleeding from a punch to the window.
Self-inflicted ruin to appease the subconscious.
Scream as loud as you can into a wet pillow.

.  Fear of suicide, or,

     accidental death,

     is never given a

    moments thought.


    Yet, conventional

   dying preoccupies

    conscious minds

     before sleeping,


    which is, in effect,

     a metaphorical

  rehearsal, that only

  insomniacs,                                                                                       escape.