In this dream, I’m laying face down in stagnant water, pale insects landing where the sun burns my back. My heart falls from a lined opening in my chest to the lake floor and is consumed by tiny fish. When they swim, they ring like communion bells, muffled by gallons of clog.
I walk out of the lake completely dry and have lunch with a new friend. We talk about helplessness as though it were the only dresses we owned. It’s too early to tell her I love her, but I do so anyway, and it works out better than I had hoped.
(I can count the people I love with one hand. I don’t think this will change.)
The fish always return to me, somehow, the pieces they devour thrown out of their mouths with bird chirps, somehow larger than before.
This has to stop.