A POEM by C.E. GALDI
I am warning the neighborhood
of a fire. we live in a painting so if someone
leaves the stove on, the entire canvas will burn us up.
it’ll crumble and become a pile of ash, newly rent
into carbon, trembling still warm on the floor, a clue
for a lab chemist to pore over. I dream
and it’s too real, I think a ghost is
holding me in my sleep, a ghost
with hair on his arms, a ghost with
hot breath. I think that I’m
haunted. my brain’s firing on every
cylinder, conjuring up images so real I can
feel them touching my skin and mouth. their eyes
get so big they fill the entire room.
sometimes it does this to tease me,
gently offering some reprieve and then snatching it
away, leaving me hungry and empty, and I want
to go back to sleep, greedy for more, but when I do
the specter leaves, I dream of nothing, the canvas
is thick gray powder now.
C. E. Galdi is just like you. She lives and browses the internet in North Carolina. She has been previously published in UNCG's undergraduate publication The Coraddi, and is now an editor there. She reads your tweets as @cyclostome.