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The Punching Bag

I use to draw Unicorns.

Over and over.  I thought I was good at it. 
I wasn’t.
I wasn’t terrible, but I wasn’t good.
I thought about when I would grow up.
And how I was going to be a fish.
How wonderful the water was going to feel.
Surrounded.
Submerged.
Then I would giggle to myself remembering that people don’t grow up to be fish.
But it was a recurring daydream.
Swimming in the blue.
This transition from mammal to fish.
I could fly in my nightmares.
Always running from Evil.
As fast as I could, but slow.
Hitting with all the force in me. 
With no effect.
With a running start I would kick my feet.
Paddling through the air, higher and higher.
I don’t know what I dream now. 
Most days I can’t tell which wretched world I’m in. 
My dreamstate or the personal hell I’ve built for myself.
The segue between the two, fused with spirits
and empty kisses
I need arms with no strings
A cradler’s chest for my weeping
This bed is not warm
It is a cell.
My food is my time machine
The wine will be good and take me from this present
To the ocean
Where I can swim as I did in my previous life. 
When I was young
before the sleep disappeared and the nightmares began

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