Pulled out of a meaningless dream

To possess such power

That I may crack like the moon

And leak galaxies,

Bodies of milk that are unforgiving in their might,

What is omnipotence to a slave?

I don't even bend.

Instead,

I see the souls of men

Beaming from their bellies

As though they've all swallowed dying stars,

I know I have the power to blow out those eternal flames,

How do I know?

How do I see?

How many worlds could I end by breathing enough?

My lungs seem to hold aliens now,

There are gods seeping out of my mouth to enchant,

I feel I know too much.

I could speak and melt nations.

My power may enslave.

Humanity and I are incompatible now.

I've touched the glass between mortal and Maker,

But it feels like climbing a cumulonibus cloud and finally reaching that heavenly Himalayan high.

Holy.

Peaceful.

Free, I am no longer a slave.

A bright but distant light seeps through the cracks of the wooden barn. I look around,my thoughts oscillating between my new mother-in-law's betrayal and whether it's possible for a barn to have no tools at all and smell of nothing but wood.

Mother-in-laws typically either play nice or standoffish with their new daughter-in-laws and barns tyipcally have a "barnyard" smell,you know,cow dung and chicken poop and horse piss if the area is not being used as a tool shed. Neither of these have been true in this case,it's weird,too weird.

Even this hay I'm laying on is weird. As I try to get off the floor,I find myself slithering desperately like an earthworm. My movements start exposing cement beneath the sparsely placed hay. What the actual hell is going on here? Where is my dad?

I feel tears cloud my gaze for the first time since the ordeal. Imagine being kidnapped in a parking lot on your way to your friend's house after the little dinner families after a wedding,not to mention the fact that one of the newly weds is in on it. It's a crazy betrayal. I did fight as hard as I could,I did scream too. Someone heard me,surely,someone heard me. There's not need to cry I'll be okay,my dad is on his way right now and-...

Just then the barn begins to creak loudly and falls apart before my very eyes. It opens outwards like a box and there I am,a silk worm on some hay in on a stage!

How could she do this to me? What is happening and is my dad going through the same thing?

I'm finally able to sit up (thanks to the fear coursing once again through my veins) and realise that the bright light I've been seeing came from a stage light. There are cameras in all corners,hungrily lurking around me as they move on their cranes like hawks ready to pounce on my ignorance. What is happening here? Where is my dad?

I stare at the audience through sharp,white stage light. I can't make out faces at first, then my eyes begin to settle and I see her.

There she is. Wendy is in the front row and stands,then begins to clap. More and more smartly dressed individuals follow her and clap,some even whistle and shout. I feel tears stream and look away in humiliation and confusion. Why are they laughing and clapping and cheering and whistling with her? She's the bad guy. She and her friends kidnapped me.

I turn back and start to feel the betrayal deepen as I see more familiar faces. There is Uncle Matthew who is Wendy's brother, and that old bat,Linda,who is her mother. I never cared for her family much,especially Linda who thought anybody who couldn't afford Armani was a peasant or worse,her personal jester.

They were the stuck-up-country-club bunch fitted with those jumpers disgustingly rich people tie around their necks. I never cared for them but now,for the first time as Wendy got out of her place and made her way to the stage,I hate to say that I do3 care. They are the only people I can confidently say I know and here they are,cackling at my expense.

If my dad had not met this woman who now appeared with a mic,ready to address her posh crowd,I would not have been here. Where was he? Where is my dad?

"Where is my dad you cow? Where is my dad? How dare you kidnap me? Where is he?",I try to shout in her direction but it comes out as the whiny pleadings of a child. These questioning pleads fall on deaf ears and she continues to stare at her audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen,boys and girls...",she says into the mic with that annoying giddiness she has had from the very first day I met her, "Presenting,the latest and greatest most bestest thingiest thing I have ever laid my eyes on...",she bellows (in that excitement she has when one of her stupid inventions works) and points behind me, I have to turn. I have turn to see what this psychotic lady is going on about.

Why did I turn back? Why did I turn back? Fresh tears sting my eyes and the scratches on my face as they fall on their own.

"...my beautiful husband",Wendy says with a thrill in her voice that seems to cut me from the inside as I lay my eyes on my father. There he is,big and towering over me as he always has but he gleams as he has never gleamed before, "I spent the night at Wendy's house,I spent the night at Wendy's house,I spent the night at Wendy's house...",he keeps repeating in the coldest tone I had ever heard escape his now part-machine lips. What is happening? What the actual hell is happening?!

Years 1315 to1317 saw almost nothing peak out of the earth,

As the Baltic world bathed in a soaking wet dearth.

Soon youngsters rested on tongues as their bones rested in matryiums,

They had been haunted by hunger and devoured by familial delirium.

Sacrilegious acts or purely primal,

Parents took their offspring into woodlands for survival.

Ever-ailing gardens led to a second attempt,

The siblings took each other's hands feeling their maker's contempt.

Gaunt birds probably ate those crumbs as they went on ahead,

Thinking a rickety wooden house was made of gingerbread.

Trust me when I say,

Hansel and Gretal did make it back home that day,

But blame the famine for the illusion

For even mothers can seem like witches when they attempt to feed on their only children.

Years 1315 to 1317 saw almost nothing peak out of the earth

As the Baltic world bathed in a soaking wet dearth.

Soon youngsters rested on tongues as their bones rested in matryiums,

They had been haunted by hunger and devoured by familial delirium.

Sacrilegious acts or purely primal,

Parents took their offspring into woodlands for survival.

Ever-ailing gardens led to a second attempt,

The siblings took each other's hands feeling their maker's contempt.

Gaunt birds probably ate those crumbs as they went on ahead,

Thinking a rickety wooden house was made of gingerbread.

Trust me when I say,

Hansel and Gretal did make it back home that day,

But blame the famine for the illusion

For even mothers can seem like witches when they attempt to feed on their only children.

Pulled out of a meaningless dream

To possess such power

That I may crack like the moon

And leak galaxies,

Bodies of milk that are unforgiving in their might,

What is omnipotence to a slave?

I don't even bend.

Instead,

I see the souls of men

Beaming from their bellies

As though they've all swallowed dying stars,

I know I have the power to blow out those eternal flames,

How do I know?

How do I see?

How many worlds could I end by breathing enough?

My lungs seem to hold aliens now,

There are gods seeping out of my mouth to enchant,

I feel I know too much.

I could speak and melt nations.

My power may enslave.

Humanity and I are incompatible now.

I've touched the glass between mortal and Maker,

But it feels like climbing a cumulonibus cloud and finally reaching that heavenly Himalayan high.

Holy.

Peaceful.

Free, I am no longer a slave.

i smother the creases on my hands against your own

they are raindrops to you oceanic length.

i am still water to your moving and rumbling and undying underhanded motions

you quiver like God.

i must have been anointed when the touching of you skin met the touching of mine

i must have been liquid within your grip as you tried you warmed my blue fingertips.

there are so many trips

unquantifiable trips into the mind of your phalanges and carpals

i even see you cuts,

travelling into you and out of you and into you again as dolphins need to breath.

Dahlia always wakes with the scent of Paloma the tequila and Piña Colada the rum on her young breath;

Dahlia gives herself to the every kind of golden shore of poison in every kind of pretty little glass.

She can’t remember how she got onto the stage with the predatory audience

But she dances like she’s seen it all and laughs like God can’t her.

She can’t remember how Sinaloa became her new home

She can’t remember what California ice cream tastes like.

She can remember the milky van and the tattooed fox who collected pretty and homeless,unruly girls.

She can remember the drink he offered her

It was one of many.

And he is like the alcohol

Gold of the skin and swirl of her mentality

She is like the glass that holds her daily sin.

To block out the haze of working for Papi Chapo she rides those toxic dreams and remembers the gin when the sun bleeds and the vodka when the heat stings.

She turns diamonds into snow for a living

She turns married men to adulterers for a price she never sees.

Tomorrow,

Like today

She will promise to run away and tomorrow,

Like today

Will wake up in the afternoon with a headache and the toxin in her body.