the space above my ears.

We're Still in Kansas

A false prophet came to you in a dream not so long ago.

You invited him inside, of course, showed him the nice parts.

You chatted for hours on the balcony overlooking the sea, letting the salty air envelop you.

You let him have the wheel for a minute, even, put everything in his hands on the first night.

It had little to do with him, who he was.

You just wanted direction.

You wanted to look at something other than the vague landmass on the horizon that only seemed to grow further away with every passing week.

It continued to fade, and at this time, he was steering more often than not.

It felt too good to be true until you remembered the bodies below deck, the skeletons stuffed under the floorboards.

A cable in your brain snapped in two and you found yourself showing him the places that weren't so nice.

He saw the fire in your hair, frostbitten feet, the insects chittering maniacally in the swamp of your chest cavity.

We fight about that a lot.

You said you didn't know what to do with it, the things he gave you, but it was your fault.

You knew it was too good to be true because he came back every time and nobody in their right mind does that to themselves.

You let yourself be loved, for once, but it wasn't love, was it?

He wanted to make you part of him.

You could smell it in the air and you did nothing.

You should have cut your losses when you starting finding the clothespins in strange places.

You should have run when you saw his collection of teeth hidden in the ceiling.

He was dislocated, always has been.

His body is a cocoon where his loneliness festers, a grainy projector screen that is always replaying the clip of lights leaving eyes.

He's not on the spectrum of evil because he is lost, but the dead fairies rioting on the balcony know exactly where he belongs.

You can kiss him goodbye though the burlap sack before the trapdoor falls open, but I won't let you go further.

I won't let you shatter yourself for him.

This isn't a place where amputations can be reversed.

His arms will not bring you any closer to coming across a diamond at the bottom of a barrel of peanuts.

Love with fine print is not love, angel.

I can't stay with you.

I won't watch you go out, killing everything about yourself but the shell.

Not for him.