In my dream I was a dog.
Some sort of mangy matted thing tethered to a rope and stake. Fragments of cracked bone and coagulated mud puddles, stuck to my fur.
In my dream
I saw the man come— he brought his cold black eyes and set his sights on me, hurled another bucket of slop at my feet and I wept.
In my dream
I saw through the black hole in his soul but my insignificance outshone the brightest star, even then I wore my existence well, shut my mouth and kow-towed, I became nothing more than a flea.
In my dream
I wore a collar and bore love just to prove that point I once knew before I disappeared into a maelstrom of mourning. Nothing left to give.
I am reminded of the wife beater singlet and mullet crop of men way back then, the stench of decay followed by assault and I know it’s only a matter of time before I die.
Still, in my dreams
I am honoured to be graced by his presence but in reality, I am worthless.
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