Drowning, sinking, silent screaming.
The cactus on my shelf is wilting.
Begging for a drop of the water which threatens to snuff out the match in my soul.
Lungs full of fluid, flickering, eyelids fluttering as I reach up high.
She doesn't search for the sun like she used to.

Rumpled bedsheets, paint-stained desk, socks on the floor.
I sleep with a sword above me, always.
Sometimes, in secret, I hope it will fall.
Would it be honourable, still, if I were not the one falling?

Life has felt, lately, much like pulling teeth.
But mine are pushing themselves out.
Grasping, clawing at my gums, slick with sticky ichor.

The trees outside keep falling in the storm.
They do not know I'm there to hear it.

My dream-catcher has not prevented the nightmares.