Nightmare

I know the filthy depths of the human mind;
the sick, tormented grind of the unspoken,
Itchy mites of visions that emulate the panic of unraveled space.
No romantic, resting shade of souls undone to grace our stormy windows—this is too kind,
too sweetly knowing of the heart’s accepted want.
No, the pale, green truth of horror lies waiting on a dingy stretch; you, seduced to chisel down your own teeth
or asked some sterile question about knives, and shown dreamscapes of your
mother’s throat splashed against her yellow curtains.
They will call you by some other name you have no waking fancy of its meaning
but nonetheless it hits you like a stone to water ‘Theo’
Why don’t we look ourselves?
We cry, stopped with fear our throats constricted.
In this nightmare, dreams of screaming come, ‘Please let me release’
you cannot,
and wake up sweating cold pebbles
that seem like they could weigh you down to die.