Woman on The Moon

My+dream+lady%2C+she+follows+me%3B+everywhere+is+her+hue%2C+tone%2C+face.+Her+face.

Kelsey Dantuma

My dream lady, she follows me; everywhere is her hue, tone, face. Her face.

Finding the perfect words in my dreams.

Waking up sweating, skin-crawling, teeth aching from gritting, biting down; it’s four then it’s five-thirty. Indents on the sheets where I ignore the shape, energies matched a seemingly unchanging shift, where there was once amber there is deep red. From fear to anxiety, and anxiety to panic I scramble; shifting, thinking, loving, feeling it all.

I pile further, clothing piles on the floor, clean it up, do it again, cycle through the washing machine, trying to change the unchangeable. Spray and wash, catching my reflection, sitting on the left-most corner of my bed, staring, getting up, and looking away, terrified. 

I pile further, clothing piles on the floor, clean it up, do it again, cycle through the washing machine, trying to change the unchangeable. Spray and wash, catching my reflection, sitting on the left-most corner of my bed, staring, getting up, and looking away, terrified. ”

I know these things, these things are simple, unwelcome yet comforting, never push me out of my own mind, I really do hate that. I pack it all up and go, leave the indents on my bed, deciding what is devastating enough to drive away, teenage runaway, go ahead, drive it home. 

Pulling with me, pushing against me, then the opposite and I don’t know what to think. Malet to the chest, the smell of coconut burnt hair, sitting on a kitchen counter in a home that feels all mine. A future, a wall of unsightly paintings and posters, frames, mirrors with frames holding my fears, not enough time, I’m running out of time.

Let me make this short but not sweet, tall and wretched thing, make that face again for me, smile maybe; I find it at the bottom of a Lucky Charms’ box. Drive too fast, drive away, drive it out, but never through. Go home and sit pitifully, pit in my stomach, guilt and shame and feeling and psychic ability, pick one and discover what the backlash may be, petty little thing. But I’m not little, am I? Please tell me, tell me the truth, weight on my shoulders, energy transfer, make you feel it. 

Heavy boots differentiated from heavy feet, heavy bones, heavy bodies. Wait for the weekend, find yourself again, stare down that aisle at Forest Hills Foods, let it control you. Disinfect your keyboard, wipe the grime and pile the clothes, fix one and let the other fall to pieces, let yourself fall to pieces for others; die for them, kill for them, ignore the indents on the other side now, starker, whiter, deeper, glaring.

Feel guilty after talking it out, somebody else, facetime calls then phone calls, eleven-o’-clock bedtime. Miss out, supplement, water bottles growing whole ecosystems in the back of a closet. Hopping into that front seat, going for that ride, let it take it all away, conflict of morality. Hide from them, hide yourself, hide it, don’t hide in the passenger seat, though, open up and feel and be loved and laugh, sharp pain through, ricochetting through your body, don’t let it go outwards, and don’t let it hurt them.

Being careful about what I say, what I do, finding a fine line, turning fuzzy, turning gray, highlight the words white and letting them melt into the Google Docs background, and then finding it again, finding myself again is the idiom of you.