The weeping lady in the ivory dress, within the high pitch fever dream,
screams at the kettle with bare feet, while wandering the grasslands.
The blonde man, strolling on top of graves, where the caskets hide, greets her.
He hands her a golden plate of vegetables and offers to peel her skin.
He covers her skin with olive oil and begins to peel her.
The blonde man, skinning her breasts and toes with a vegetable peeler,
accuses her of her enjoyment; she declines, as she tilts her back, sitting on the headstone
Chestnut eyes dart at the open wound on her breasts, crimson drips, to peer over back at her.
She could hear the screeching of the kettle on top of the hot plate;
the lingering aroma of burnt toast from the kitchen,
and the wailing timer of the oven going off.
All of it remains, except for the white cotton sheets under her.
She does not ponder about her health,
nor does she wonder if their future will have children.
Oddly, she is thankful he eats his vegetables with her
as he gradually peels the soles of her feet.
Peels of skin, like strips of film, form recollections of their memories,
forbidding her from leaving the fever dream and the graveyard.
Her sigh, worn, and exasperated, swallows the wind as the boughs creak,
her dull chestnut eyes reach for the lush grass, it is nothing and everything to her.
She lies over white sheets, naturally attempting to heave
His pale face and whirlpool eyes become bokeh, as water clouds her vision.
Eyes shut, omnipresent, she views him and herself in comatose.
Yet, the saliva hardly able to slip down the thin pathways of her throat commands her to move.
Her chapped lips move only to catch the air; his thumbs pressed on the indent of her neck
almost as if he was trying to mark her with his fingerprint.
His nails pushed inwards to the sides of her velvet flesh—burgundy and violet.
How did they end up here?
Her beige face almost became more ashen than his—more violet.
The scleras of her eyes are bloody red, all else of her body dark, her mind and her heart.
Pitch dark, dash into the night, into another dream,
for what once was her broken dream about a quaint cabin with a lover’s heart.
The man in the white rabbit suit runs down the road on a hill towards me.
He collapses me onto the asphalt as he lunges at me with his two huge rabbit feet.
In triumph, he rips my clothes into tatters and gropes my breasts in circular motion.
The abyss in his ebony eyes scavenges my entirety as he sits on top of me on the lonely road.
My forehead pools in tears from the fever dream, a memory.
I hope to never see him or her again