bury my shattered skin

I am quite honestly afraid of what night brings sometimes
(and I think it is not healthy, to fear sleeping)

pictures play

beneath closed eyelids

and time seems to stop at a stand-still

as the clock quits ticking and the hands freeze

and the world falls into post-apocalyptic disaster

the destruction ranging free and wide

as my eyes twitch, still shut and unseeing

but my fingers grasp at nothing

as the undead converge

and they tear my father away from me,

they grapple hungrily at his arms and sink their teeth into his flesh

but for me,

they lean in with stinking, rotting skin peeling away from bone in places,

and they move closer,

with their putrid breath,

and they bite off my lower lip

and I scream as I shudder away from them

in pain and revulsion and an overwhelming urge to escape this place

and then I'm back in the yellow meadow

and I ask my father,

'is this real?'

and he says yes

and he keeps saying yes,

keeps saying it as he's dragged off into the forest by one of them

and I cannot wake up,

this mirage will not free me,

will not release me from its grasp while it clutches

my pain and my terror and the scent of my utter and complete fear

and it feeds off it.

The End

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