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“A dream I didn’t dream.” by Elizabeth G.

You say I dreamed it.
You say I dreamed when he slid his hand up my silhouette.
When he caressed my nipple as he does yours when it’s dark at night.

You say I dreamed seeing the white blur of his shirt crawl on top of me.
And he caressed my carcass.
As I lie there frozen in fear.

Perhaps you say I dreamed it for you’ve dreamed your own life.
You’ve dreamed to forget how your legs spread for boys who could only take you for what you were.
A pleasure tool. A whore without a cause.

But you see,
You and me.
We aren’t so different.
You were once the woman I am.
Chasing the thrill and
seeking the pleasure.
Now you say you’ve grown,
as a flower grows,
peeking above the rest.
You think your perspective is different up there.
You think you’re taller,
more intelligent,
too good to chase
the thrill any longer.

Maybe you’re terrified.
Terrified of what would happen
if that white blur
actually became still.
If what I saw and
what I felt was real.
Then how would that flower change?
Would it cower because
it’s source of power
had blown away in the breeze, carefree,
not owned by its possessor?

Would you wilt,
would you wither
as you appear to do now?
Would you say
I dreamed a dream or that life became too real?