i awaken on occasion from a dream
to a deep thrust-throbbing pain in my shoulder
where the knife slid in.
my flesh proving poor armor against folded steel.
deep swallows of air fight
with the bitter bile rising to the back of my throat.
hands fumbling to my back, eyes closed in fear
that my fingers will touch something cold, foreign.
no relief when i find only skin, unbroken.
the cold pain remains.
it will linger for hours when i wake like this.
bits of logic make weary attempts to calm my racing heart,
my head falling to my hands, my tears falling to the quilt.
the whispered mantra is revived;
the pain is from the accident, not the dream.
pain from the crash crunch of metal on metal and glass flying.
then the memory of sitting on cool grass with my head in my hands,
tears falling to the ground, siren in the distance.
the stabbing pain is just a dream,
brought on by the wrong position of sleep as it claimed me
(the undigested bit of meat that i toss myself)
and i rest again on pillows to stare into the dark.
gathering focus to fight the pain that can’t exist.
in the quiet there is a murmur from behind a locked door in my head
and terror grips me; the mist of thought slips through a keyhole.
the dream and the pain were there long before the accident.