I have been waking up every morning for the past week drenched in sweat-the kind where you wake up and the bed is soaked three inches out from the perimeter of your body-with shaky hands and an unshakable feeling of impending doom. Last night I dreamed of kids getting murdered. Not gang violence, no boom-boom you’re dead, but little kids getting their heads blown off yards away from me, my forehead getting splattered with blood, urgent drives through abandoned mountain roads with a black teenage boy bleeding out in my backseat. Toddlers sticking knives in their throats, I’m keeping a little girl’s intestines in her body with my bare hands. Clots of blood pouring out of me on the black and white bathroom tile, blending in with my red toenail polish, streaked red handprints above the kitchen sink. I wake up from these things and I can’t shake them all day. These aren’t the kinds of dreams that fade away-they stay with you, they wrap around you, shackles around your feet and hands, red vines tattooing henna prints up your arms. What am I supposed to say when people ask me what’s wrong?


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