the first time i dreamt about death i was four

i saw myself on the table

my parents, like so many back then didn’t think about the shows they watched in front of me

didn’t take my high intelligence into the equation

probably thought i was too busy playing with toys to see the things on the screen

so when i woke up screaming they were a little worried

i had the same dream for months

always the same

i was there and my dead body was on the table in front of me

my eyes were closed and my arms crossed on my chest

the y incision with quick dirty stitches almost hidden

i don’t know which was worse

the horror of knowing i was going to die

or the calmness i felt seeing it

the disappointment when the dream stopped

it was comforting after i got used to it

i was so young

my ain’t had just explained how i ruined my parents lives

about my sister

i wonder if it was my subconscious telling me something my young brain couldn’t decipher

when i got older and the sham of a marriage fell apart

the fighting all the time

dad hiding at the bar until late

with his girlfriends that made him actually happy

that was when i started cutting myself

wearing long sleeve shirts

letting the loathing come out to play

i was a misfit

fast mind

fat body

and completely out of touch

growing up with drunks does that to a kid

you either retreat into a shell or lose your filter

i lost my filter

too fat for a shell

read too much

hurt too much

found drugs

i remember swearing to never touch the stuff

until i did

and i remember never feeling so good

so free from the shackles

until it was all i did

then the pain just became part of it

suddenly it was needing to get high to stop the thoughts that just crept in as i was high

then i started drinking

the same cycle occurred

it was great

it was a crutch

it stopped helping

why was everyone so happy and i was always so fucking sad

that was when i made my first mask

wrote my first poem

rhyming garbage

super deep emotional trash

awkward and just bad

like now

but younger me

i cleaned up

beat my demons

moved away

found myself

and sobreity was just another cycle

it helped

until it didn’t

and now i am in this bombed out crater where a life used to be

still wearing the mask

wishing i did all the drugs and drank to numb the pain

writing terrible poetry to a world that knows better

alone

i had the dream again last night

i was on the table

i was looking at me on the table

and i felt so envious of me

of him

so peaceful

sleeping happily

no more broken dreams

no bills

no heart ache

nothing

just laying there

arms crossed

same hasty stitchwork y

i wonder of it will come again tonight

the dream of solace

one that says this too shall pass

once more into the great beyond

to sleep, perchance to dream

i love that line

everything thing i do is stolen

stolen words

stolen hopes

stolen dreams

i guess I have always been waiting for one of my own

maybe this one is mine

that cold table

is that why happy ends in a y