Why do you hijack my dreams?
Why do you hijack my dreams where you are with me? And it’s not you, I know it’s not you.
It’s the idea, not the person.
Why do you accompany me at the end of times?
Why do you stay with me in my grandpa house?
Why are you invading my thoughts if I know you are poison to my throat?
I know you bleed me, but I still crave you.
Oh but it’s not you. Not you you.
It wasn’t you when you stepped out of the shower in my dream. Nor was it you when you sat right next to me at the family dinner.
It was the f girl.
Not you.
You just woke up.
Desiring something else.
But the f girl.
She’s my plaything.
A spiking, painful plaything.