by Jena Davis

Sometimes I dream.
About eyes plucked from heads.
Like grapes off the vine.
I dream about them popping.
Back into socket.
In someone else's head.
I wake up gasping.
Run to the mirror.
My eyes are not my own.

I dream of eyes on a vine.
None of them look at me.
None of them can help me.
He tells me he's the only one.
Who would ever want to see me.
He is right.
I cut.
Off all my hair.
I dye.
It back to blonde.
I do not walk on train tracks because I cannot leave my room.
But I learn to tie knots.
I spend the year a corpse.

The vines grow around me.
I'm afraid they'll tie me to the bed.
My sister starts to look like me.
And I stop looking like myself.
I buy her a pocket knife.
I tell her to hold her keys between her fingers.
And to take the elevator in every parking garage.
Avoid quiet stairwells.
None of this will help her.
She says no one looks at her now.
I tell her that's the problem.

I am decaying in a burning field.
Nothing can grow here.
I take walks.
I promise I have it under control.
I don't.
I take a walk off a bridge.
But snap.
Back into socket.
In someone else's body.

I dream of my eyes on a vine.
They look the other way.
When his girl walks past.
But when I see her again.
Her head has empty sockets.
Dripping red down her face.
I open my mouth and her eyes roll out.
There is no forgiveness.
Not for this.
I drop to my knees.
In a church I'm not welcome in.
And God tells me I should've screamed.
I should've.

In my daydreams no one.
Plucks my eyes from my head.
I pluck his instead.
I hold them in my hands.
Squeeze them until they pop.
Rarely there is blood.
But mostly it is puss.
Thick and white.
Dripping between my fingers.

None of this will help me.

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