Every night I dream of a baby. At times they come to me in the form of a sick animal, or a deformed child that no one will have. But they are always for me. And my acceptance of each of them is palpable. I am always willing. As if I understand a stronger purpose and I feel capable, whichever way it will show up.
I dream of the same faces each night. The same jealousies and grapplings in how to arrange my own face so that no one will hear how loud my heart beats. I wonder if sadness is a tree that grows in sleep.
I feign apathy, or worse, contempt. What I know even in dreams is that this is a temporary solution to a root problem. I wake to find my long limbs pulled tightly to my chest, and there is an ache involved in the uncurling of them. I wonder if I am scowling through the night?