Shaking the small dream-voices from her hair
onto the pillow, diphthongs slide over the sheets
and each hits the floor with a d.
D is for dead. A series of finalities.
Because that is the truth of it,
she thinks: the never-ending
endings. Once
the darkness crackled
with explosions - her eyes opened or closed-
fluorescent before she knew the word
adrenaline. Now the dreams,
like unvarying, loving strokes,
abrade. There's no reassembling
of consonants, of bits that groove
together like puzzle pieces
making stories
no one can bear to hear. Shhhh, she allows
between the silence.
Cassandra shuffles through the night's artifacts,
- through the ward toward the dining room -
her bare foot on the linoleum floor
makes an accidental step
on a sharp K. But no exclamations
needed. (None heeded.) Come night
the voices will spill again from her ears:
muffled, urgent, ever-after as futile.
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Oh God, this is so brilliant.