Proprietary Colors

When I dream it's like real life. Only louder and with subtitles. I always wake up in the middle only to discover I haven't. The autumn of a life. All the leaves turning pretty colors right before they die.

The handcuffs in every woman's head as she undresses in front of a man for the first time. A thief. An artist. A victim. Drawing in borrowed ink. On stolen paper. Pictures taken without permission. Waking up. To the flashes in her esophagus. The shutter of strange eyes hijacking the lines of her hips.

They all want a fresh womb to crawl inside. Be born again as someone else's child.

Drawing the mazes in matching paint on the walls.

When we dream it's the same as life. Only redder. Tying their shoes afterwards. Crippled sideways men bent over the broken dam. They walk away the same as they walked in. Only more yellow. Counting the barbs on the stingers.

I always wake up sure the monsters are real.

If I ever do wake up.