That Girl

That girl’s a walking holocaust the man says in the dream. And I laugh and put the pierced body in my pocket because he is right. I make a note of him. One am. When I am not sure where the beeping sound is coming from. If it is the pulse of my heart. Or the stalling of a truck. Waiting by the door is a black bag full of things. Things that were too nice to use. That I saved up for so long they lost all their meaning. The white fluffy kitty pencil case. Worn. But not from my fingers. From the scrape of time passing over it in the drawer. Funny. How my things will become your things. That once again I will lose my story. Time has scraped over me too. I am turning to junk. Rising into the clouds like ether. I lie down. Trace the words on the side of the bath. Meaningless words that have no ink to appear. The sky is full of nests and pink ink. Marshmallows and forgotten treasures. I want to swallow it. Like my final dose. I imagine the softness passing through my skin. A tender bandage applied to the emptiness of war. My hand rests on the cool bath. The man is still there. I try to change his words, but I only have time to say - that girl’s walking.