Nightmares still rip me from the comfort that could be sleep,
turning comfortable well-lit spaces into dark wells of hatred.
In those unconscious hours, your dream form chases me
through gardens of weeds and hoarded useless things.
She traverses it all with ease and murders me.

Not verbal accusations like in the waking world,
but physical destruction. The end of me.
You couldn't be more blood-thirsty.

Still, in those dreams, I try to reason with you.
I hold back the knife as you stab at my chest—
I remind you of a time when your ill will was less.
When awake, I'm clear and comfortable with all that I know.
When asleep, I'm confused and still struggling to let go.

As much as I work to wipe away the stain,
my gut tells me that these visions will continue to haunt me—
will worsen as the years pass and as the loss becomes mine.
Because you are just fine with broken connections and burnt bridges.
I am the only child who still plays connect the dots
and who isn't satisfied with puzzles unfinished.

But short of an intervention, I can't fix this.
And even then, it would be falseness.
I must accept that you're just the tragedy that bears the gift
of knowing that I am good enough, as is.