Spring Dream #1 by Beckie Stewart
When you read everything I had to say but had not yet said aloud, I learned the lesson of not naming my word documents after you. When I crawled into your bed and lay still and held my breath I was not trying to die I just wanted to have your attention. But when I walked into the road without looking seven times in a row, I was kind of hoping it would go unnoticed. I know it’s hard to tell the difference between loving a person and wanting to bury yourself under them. I know it’s hard to survive for 24 hours in ways people don’t recognise. I was once compared to the wide open night and maybe this is why you only ever walked around in me. The exits are here, here and—the truth is, I am just a small dark hole. When you whispered my name into my ear you heard it echo and you liked it because you loved how another noun seemed to belong to you. I know what it’s like to be tied up and left but at least I forget what it feels like to be forced inside of every Sunday morning. Now I know the act of wringing a rabbits neck is a synonym for you. Now you are a little cautious when you walk around at night. Now I dream I am burying a rabbit by a torrent spring. And I am digging. I am digging a small dark hole.
Beckie Stewart is a northern Irish writer and literature graduate whose work has previously appeared in The Cadaverine, Black & BLUE, Milk & Honey, Freedom from Torture and The M20 Collective.