Fungus Dream
In this dream
I am buried in the limbs of a tree.
High in the air, I am surrounded by emerald jewel leaves, squinting like the inside of a pomegranate.
Every so often, I am flung up past the branches high into the sky and fall back to my perch. I suspect trampolines are hidden inside the bark. If I scraped away the tree skin I would find springs and plastic mesh.
I am spying through holes in the glossy foliage to the earth below.
I see Him.
The man who’s ejaculate fed on my organs like a fungus, coating my lungs, heart, and kidneys with a yellow resin, crusty and rotten.
I want him.
He can smell my hunger; he can smell the slow decay of my insides. His eyes find mine high above him.
Without warning, he envelops me. Phantom hands are on my face, tracing lines from my jaw into the tangle of my hair. My eyes are strobe lights, punctuated with blackouts. The world is spinning green jewels and warm hands coated with fungus. I melt into the waxy yellow green moss in the crevices of the bark.
I acquiesce.