I suffer from having a vivid imagination.
It started with a death of a family member, and my imagination froze any grieving process.
I can leave reality, retreating to my imagination. The only problem is when I can’t get out.
This time there’s dragons.
Little ones, the size of a stuffy you’d never be able to get at a claw machine. They are different colors, too.
And I made them all.
Turquoise and white, red and orange, dark blue and black, yellow and white, and so on and so forth.
They swirl around around me, forked tongues licking my arms. I lay back, the peach colored ball gown fluffing around me. I can almost feel the scratchy tulle on my skin, can almost feel my lungs constrict from the corset. My hand raises to my face, my fingertips grazing my lips. They come away dark red.
My head feels like when you’ve been on a screen for too long, either watching movies when you’re sick, or trying to get work done, and then you finally tear your eyes from the pixels and your mind warps and squeezes.
Bubbles float. A song plays in the background, just one verse. I don’t know the rest of the song.
I drink bubbles. I eat glitter and choke on poetry. I rip reality from the seams.
A million shards of glass float before me, reflecting memories. A café sits around me, serving pumpkin pie. None of the customers notice me, either that or they’re just refusing to make eye contact with me. I guess I don’t want them to.
I pop a soap bubble with my teeth, staring straight ahead
I feel so beautifully empty.