My dreams all take place in a house. Often my grandparent’s, in the basement. Once there was a tray of watermelon with slices of white cheese at the bottom of the stairs. Or the house on Byrd Avenue. Byrd like the football player. Byrd like the sky.
Inside the living room there is family of strangers, the ones who understand that their essence only truly exists in my sleep reality, on the dream side of things, reality like dreams. Relatives are all sandwiched on couches, their hips creating puzzle pieces of bone and flesh. There is a voice in the wall. She says, kill everyone.
One in the attic, I squash like a bug. There is no sound.
I move to the stairway. There is a shadow at the bottom. Or it is my brother, but not my brother. I follow him, or it. I follow the thing that looks like something. I blink and the thing is motionless. My hands. I cannot control their strength.
There is the same voice, rubbing itself into the wallpaper. It tells us we know better, we know best, but how can the best choice be this or that. The walls are glowing, fuzzy with light. I am hemorrhaging with light. What is this thing that is happening?