I dream of lolly pops and
The sweet smell of opium races through my
The sun is made of gold.
Devil eyes burn.
The moon is filled
with cracks of blue mix.
Wild things crawl under my bed. I
can hear them.
“What do they sound like?” the doctor asks.
“They sound like nothing,” I say.
“Nothing is something,” he says.
The holes in my bruised arms are battle wounds
of a rehabilitated street corner.