I sleep, I wake.
I check my notes to find new secrets, new words,
The ink is still wet, though I don’t recall the hand that spilled it.
My memory is a fog, but the page is a crime scene; my pen bleeds with fresh blood, my hand is cut.
It must be me, reaching back from the dream world, or dragging words out of the nightmare.
I inhabit the pages between sleeping and standing, guided by a pen that turns to a razor in the dark.
I am lucky the fog remains.
If I remembered the cutting, I might stop the flow.
It was my hand, my soul, my shadow, my pain, and my heart.
It was me,
even if I wasn’t there to see or remember it.
I am the criminal who forgot about the crime, but lives the aftermath.