Twitch

You twitch in your sleep.
At first, your face is peaceful,
a swell of silence, a blank lullaby,
waiting, twiddling its thumbs for lyrics
written by Queen Mab's calligraphy.
Instead, the honest Puck
Sneaks up with dustings of tripped
Up fairy musk, curling up
Your nose with its more or less distasteful
Scent.
Like an old dog twitching at a
Bad dream, you shoo away Hermia's
Irksome trouble, or at least, you try.
It frightens me a little, the way
Your body stutters, as if the
Weird Sisters are casting Macbeth's
Prophecies, and nights of
Invisible blood.
If I could, I would brush away
The spider beds, inked with dew and anxieties
From your head.

I love to see the lullaby when you sleep.


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My face hits something hard as I fall out from the mirror.  There's a sickening crack and blood and bits of teeth fill my mouth, and I almost pass out from shock.  I welcome the pain.  It reminds me I'm real again.
Dim orange light reveals a row of toilet stalls.  Guttural whisperings echo from the mirror.
"You've lost him."
"It doesn't matter."
"He was our best."
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I shrink back against the wall, become one with the shadows under the sink.  Whatever their words, I know they'll come for me.  They always do.
 


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