Pinky

He has this dream, recurring dream.

He forgets who he is, how to act. In the dream. None of his words match up, some sick crossword puzzle where the letters don't fit into white and black boxes. The lines in the grid split like so many hairs. And the grid grows until it's just the suburbs from satellite peepholes, no need to ring the doorbell.

And the words are impossible. What's the 23 letter word for "elbows" that starts with a 't'? Or is it an 'f'?

And nothing he does is right, feels right. He walks with two left feet but no legs. Enmity and disgust in the eyes of friends, family, and lovers imaginary. And the smell of old gum stuck to people's heels after tromping through wet grass on a September night.

And it's not even about how they hate him. It never was. It's the voices that clamber through scratchy throats, words consumed with an unfamiliar anger, the intent of knees thrown into glass noses making for dried blood disguises that no one can seem to see through.

He awakes in a cold sweat, consumed with finger-smudged mirrors and memories of childish heartaches that never quite see tomorrow's tomorrow.

And he always wonders if his eyes were ever closed in the first place.