I dream about the house I grew up in every night. The porch light soaks through my skin and I feel like crying every time. No one hears me because it’s just a dream and nothing feels real until you let it.

I’m always fighting for my father to stay alive and my mother to feel some sort of peace in the process. I race the house in falling apart by showing it that I can destroy myself quicker than grief. I can combust too. I can turn the whole thing to ash, then rebuilt it at my leisure, because it’s just a dream.

So when waves build behind my eyes, I’ll flood the garden. I’ll pray over it. Make it holy. Ask for it to bloom in the next dream so that it all feels less frightening. Wake up- the damage stuck with me. I no longer hold peaceful hands- the same hands that taught me to how pray. I mean, It’s a just a dream, right? -AMT©️