In my dreams you are dead amid the wreckage. You are yesterday's carcass drawing flies to feast on your still open eyes, to brush bloated against your lolling tongue. Black-winged carrion birds flock to your corpse to scavenge your flesh.

     The early bird catches the worm.

     In my dreams you are for the worms.

In my dreams i can take your skeletal remains and bang out the beat of the heart that you broke hard upon your hollow skull.

I can break your wrists and ankles. I can sever every tendon, tear every ligament, rip you limb from limb then carve calligraphy into your ivory bones. With a very sharp scalpel.

If there are shackles in my dreams they are cynched tight around the beauty of your pain, clenching ever harder, cutting their excruciating way through flesh and muscle and sinew...

      bleeding you... and bleeding you... and bleeding you dry.

     In my dreams i can sleep easy knowing:

I can bury your remains in a swamp until they putrify to fetid gore. Slowly decomposing, falling prey to rot...covered in lichen feeding the moss, immortalized in dirt.

I can douse your funeral pyre in gasoline and when only ash remains scatter it unceremoniously over some desolate wasteland.

I can laden your body in concrete heavy as my heart, then sink you to the bottom of a sea deep and black. In one hundred years your bones will become the sediment from which life will spring. Only then will the debt of the life you took from me be paid in full.

    In my dreams i cut you and you feel it.

    In my dreams you can't fight back.

    Because in my dreams you are always dead to me.... But i am not dead to you.

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