sombre

amaryllis eulogies

12:25 AM — saturday october 30th

the moon is dripping tonight. it slides down the sky in thick, slow ribbons, pooling in the corners of the room, sticky, silver. i try to catch it with my hands, but it slips through my fingers, slick and cold, leaving behind nothing but the smell of wet metal. the air hums with a strange energy, like everything is vibrating just beneath the surface, the walls breathing in time with me. i close my eyes, but the light leaks through my eyelids, pulsing.

time isn’t right anymore. it bends, twists, folds itself like fabric. i think it’s morning, but the night clings to my skin like damp cloth, heavy, suffocating. the clocks are all wrong, ticking in circles, ticking backward. yesterday was tomorrow, and today is fading before it even begins. i try to catch the hours, pin them down, but they slip past me, laughing, always laughing.

i walk. i think i walk. the floor is soft beneath my feet, sinking, pulling me down like quicksand. every step drags me further, deeper, but i can’t stop. my legs move on their own, slow, heavy, like wading through water. the hallway stretches out before me, impossibly long, like a tunnel that never ends, walls pressing closer, tighter. i can’t breathe. can’t breathe.

the door at the end is glowing. i reach for it, but my hand is too small, shrinking as i get closer. i knock. the sound echoes, but it isn’t my hand making it. knock knock knock. my heart? no. something else. i don’t want to open the door. i have to open the door.

inside, the room is full of water. it laps at my ankles, cool, clear. i bend down, touch it, and it turns to glass. sharp, fragile. i stand still, afraid to move, afraid i’ll shatter it all, the water, the air, myself. i’m made of glass too, now. thin, transparent. i can feel the cracks forming in my skin, in my bones. with each breath, i splinter.

the moon is still dripping. it fills the room now, thick and heavy, pushing me down, down, until i am nothing but a sliver of light, floating on the surface. the door closes behind me, soft, final.

i can’t remember if this is a dream or if the dream has swallowed me whole. maybe i am the dream, drifting, breaking, dissolving into nothing. maybe i always was.