CLARISSA CABELLO

I own a home in the forest

I dream about my raw-edged dining table

I dream about the herb garden next to the stream

I dream my life is different

I dream about being a wife

I dream about taking my own life

I dream that I will wake up and be inspired

I dream that my mother is no longer tired

I dream about the house I used to live in

I dream I was born rich

I dream that I have started all over again

I swear that I will never have children, yet I dream of being a mother

I dream about my children

I dream about my grandchildren

I watch them grow

They hold my hands,

I tell stories and they listen

I dream that they never cry, and are never hurt

A whole lifetime passes through R.E.M.

I dream about my mother and I dream about being her mother and I dream about never being born

I dream about people dying

I dream about my loved ones

I dream about someone I haven't thought of once

I dream about sex

I dream about touch

I dream about someone I don't know spreading my legs

I dream about someone I would never think of doing that with

I dream about being a man

I'm arrogant and rude yet I get everything I want

I dream I go through life never knowing the word no

I dream I lose things

I dream my ears fall off

I dream my legs no longer work and I wake up screaming

I dream about ghosts

I dream about every bad thing that has ever happened to me, and every good thing that will never happen

I dream that I will never have to sleep again

I wake up tangled in my sweat and tears

For the past few months, all I’ve known are dreams

They are too vivid, more vivid than my memories have ever been

My brain has always felt foggy, yet sharp

Like I’m walking on moss, delightful soft mounds, but it's wet and I

slip and crack my head open on the rock

The only memories I keep are from the rocks

I don't remember my childhood, yet I dream about it

When I dream I don't feel safe.

When I dream I can't put my finger on it.

When I dream I can't distinguish it from reality.

The memories I keep aren't mine.

But aren't they mine? They're in my head.

I'm talking with friends and say: "Am I remembering this correct?"

My memories feel like dreams.

When it's so upsetting, you quash and quash and quash and will it into fiction.

I've lived in many houses

I'd never stay more than a couple of years

I’m jealous of people who belong to the same house since childhood

"Childhood homes,” apparently you can only have one.

But I've had ten, at least that's how many I can count

The number changes depending on how sharp my brain is that day

I believe I will never own a home,

yet when I fall asleep, I am sat on my couch

in my home I own in the forest.

The strawberries I have grown,

I knit and sew my clothes,

Along my porch, I lay sandstone.

I lose myself in self-realised fiction

Memories slip away. They can't stick to the moss.

A cracked foundation,

it crumbles away until                          I'm left with negative space.

Negative thoughts.

I dream about being retired

I hear the stream trickling past my garden

I feel the sun burning through the windows

I smell the wooden floors

I see the trees waving hello

I wake up in a house I don't own.