Dream Girl

At night,

she’s there at the window.

She’s there at the horizon of the bed.

She’s there,

hanging from the closet door.

Even amongst the oddities,

a tire caught on fire rolling down a hill,

a unicycle on an abandoned dirt road,

she is there.

Sometimes, I must ward her off with magic words like “hoopla,”

repeated like an incantation.

On more than one occasion I have consumed her,

typically beginning at the jaw,

the clack of my teeth on her teeth.

Other times, I take pity.

I can understand the dread of stone and mortar and water.

I can feel the pain of bloated skin and water-logged limbs.

But underneath is the fear,

the terror stronger than anything else,

and the knowledge that I’m the prey

as she slinks up staircases and inches open doors.

Night always returns,

but this night,

this night for sure,

I will cure myself of her possession.