Hierarchy of Dreams

I had a dream 

I was Taylor Swift’s best girl, riding the wave of normalcy, living under my parents’ name. I asked her if she’d want my spare bedroom to be decorated so she could put her feet to rest. I wanted her to relax. The flashing lights are not your best friend, and neither is your biggest fan. 

I had a dream 

I was in a well-lit prison, where there was no sight of grey. Only the silver ash of my best friend, a clairvoyant getting slivers of images to my freedom. She painted the landscapes I’d get over in my journey to civilization. The prison guard took them away, then slipped them under the pillow the night of my escape. 

I had a dream

I was kidnapped, in the land next to Wiccalocan, the private school of my dreams. I told them I liked it when they touched me, that they were my family. My best friend took the spare iPod and recorded our location, looking for some wifi to connect to to call for our help. 

I had a dream 

I was invited to a party at a cabin in the woods, with pretty blonde girls. I couldn’t see their faces. I really wanted to. Ask them if it’s too much, when the boys bothered them for some fun. I couldn’t stand the taste of rum and coke. The coke was too sweet. 

I had a dream 

I was yours. You, the one with soft words and harsh eyes. Scanning my x-ray-worthy bones, milky calcium and innocent eyes. Give me your sap, your shame, and I will give you my naked truth. 

Was it a dream? 

When you asked me what I really meant by that?

Was it really a dream? 

The glow in your eyes when I challenged you, or was it really true? 

Toppled like lego bricks, you build in my body like a benign cancer. 

I’m trynna be down, but all you do is build me up.

Was it worth washing me down in your cup? 

What is it about me that makes you bow down? Yet tackle me like they do in the Superbowl? 

I had a dream 

I won prom queen. Wasn’t a dream but  sure felt like it. A sensitive poet, at the top of something, not quite sure if ever useful of evermore life’s woes. A crown sits on my head, and on top is the halo you placed on that heavy thing. Heart as light as a feather, the serpent in my womb slithering all over your snake. 

I had a vision

Of a snake, coiled up and shiny black, like silicon black silly putty. Speaking of, you turn me into something like that. My words flow out like poetry when I am with you, my body’s muscle memory uncovering the angelic facade I carefully created to avoid incrimination around the reptiles. I hope they can’t tell how much I want to be defiled by your hungry fingers. 

I had a dream 

You were my poet. Mine, like Taylor Swift sung. I used to hate that bitch; now I see her light as if a spell was cast on me. 

Speaking of, do you believe in ghosts? 

Or only the things you cannot see?

When you said you didn’t believe in souls, 
I saw something shine in your chest. 
I called it mine. 

FOrm form form
Right, if I am your poet.
Or if you are mine

I cannot go on covering my shameful lust with pride
It might be fear, clinging on like mice
On the side of the road, 
Two tiny kittens hugging in an oyster
Clasped on my skin
Clashing dissonance
Is all poetry? 
There is no such thing as sense with you
No so much deadbeat
Or even Beat Poetry
Flappers with wings
You said my wings,
You said, you said 

Stretch it out, they said
(You said) 
It left you feeling hung, 
I’m trynna get you sprung

Anyways, the poetry must, well, you see, 
It must not be so fast, so elusive like it’s fleeting away
Ballet flats, strings intertwining light as my heart
(too fluffy)
I hate you, God!
(too aggressive)
I want you 
(too… porno…)

make sure it makes sense, 
people don’t like torture, 
I beg to differ. 

I’m scared of a lot of things
And a lot of things is you

-Samantha Liu, ’21