I sit upright in my bed time after time.
I shake and grit my teeth against the memories. I try to silence
the thoughts, but they come back no matter what I do. There are a
lot of them, the black thoughts that curse the moments before I drift off
to sleep. I can by no means categorize them. They don’t abide
by any chronology or organization. My nightmares are more the material
of poetry than narration, but I don’t think it would be fair to break the
decorum of what has already gone. Please allow yourself the luxury
of reading these things as if they were dreams, nightmares, rather than
pieces of my personal history. It might be easier to stomach if their
authenticity is forgotten.