I had a nightmare for the first time in a long time.
Unlike the visceral gore, cornered panic, and formless shame that typically fills my unconcious headspace.
I awoke, my body wracked with sobs, and my chest heaving under the stress of phantom pressure.
I had a nightmare that someone with no face, no name, and no voice looked through me from across a room.
We sat facing each other in a seemingly desolate room, our only visible beacon being each other.
The emanating discomfort between us originated only from me.
I had a nightmare that I spoke.
I spoke of my numerous siblings, of my distant cousins, of my fathers, of my mothers, of my fair weather friends, and those who stayed with me through the storm.
I spoke of my fear of emotion, and resulting lack of passion with a clearness and feverish fervor unbecoming of me in my waking hours.
I had a nightmare that I spoke, and someone listened.
Now, as the salt stains my cheeks and the weight on my shoulders remains the same, I realize the only nightmare is waking and knowing it was just a dream.
Oh, how often I wish I could remain in my nightmares.