The Dreamcatcher

I tell this dream where you strip me bare

and your mouth latches onto my neck.

I tell them how blood pools around your tongue,

and my head swirls like a tornado

as the metallic twang drips into your throat.

I tell them how my skin ignites

and desire coils inside of me

like a serpent.

This starts to sound like a nightmare;

they wince when I tell them that,

in this dream,

you strike my cheek and only then

am I brought to life.

I tell this dream with an abashed glint in my eyes

but when they turn their faces,

I shake with the force of my revulsion.

Is it easier to pretend I am wanton than wanted?

In the dream I don't tell,

I sob into your chest —

heaving like some ugly, reproachable beast.

The worst part is that you cradle my flailing body

and I erupt into something else entirely.

In the dream I don't tell,

I know how it is like to be touched

with feather-light strokes.

Somehow, that is harder to convey than meaty hands grabbing bruised flesh.