the natives warned me of the sounds in the dark

"you are a self-loathing
pipe bomb filled with tacks
and nails and sharp ideas."

and that's when i throw off the sheets,
all fire and brimstone and sweat.

"you are in my dream and you
could be a little nicer because
it is, after all, my dream and i
am fully aware of it being a
dream."

she shakes her head
the same way i imagine
a lioness would.

"you will never have this."
she throws her arms wide
to illustrate the absurdity
of my room decorated
in old oil paintings,
diamond chandeliers,
suits of cold armor,
and tiny stables
of pigmy horses.

"i see your point" i cry,
sit down on the sympathetic,
outstretched trunk of a
domesticated elephant whom
i would love to call 'charles.'

she sighs, slides to the foot of the bed
a few feet across from me, wearing
nothing. her black hair falls down
in front of her face and i am in a jungle
of snakes and vines and gorgeous, glowing
eyes of predators.

"you won't even let yourself dream of success"
is the last thing i hear in the dark,
and even if she's wagging her finger it's
really just me wagging my finger at myself
and, christ, wouldn't it be nice if she
was actually here. i'd settle for just
her disembodied finger, swaying back
and forth in the cavern of my room
like the tail of my elephant,
charles.