Try Not to Self Diagnosis
Had one of those dreams
again.  Either where
the swamp hags
have taken my sister
Or where the eyeless thing,
with skin like polished marble,
moves like water.

Open my eyes, can’t
move though. If they
see me, I can’t rescue
her.  If I move, I’ll find
how hard it’s skin is.

Somewhere between awake now.  Alone,
which makes it worse
No monsters.
Just me, head racing. Are my
teeth falling out.  Why
aren’t I crying?
Dreading my birthday
I’m back in the elevator.
Where are my clothes?

Come to. Hanging
on the thought, “will
there be anything
to grasp onto”