i sometimes dance in my bed.

Come fly with me.
Let’s fly, let’s fly away.
Where moonbeams eat away
at every corner of the darkened day.

I thought I was alone in my white sheets
and the curtains clattered in the wind,
making noises.
But as it comes in gusts
the wood of the walls twists and spirals
in upon itself
and sends forward slimy worms
with fettered feet in rows of rose-pink flesh.

“Come to us,” they hiss,
tap-tap-tap dancing across the pine knots and
between horizons. They pop and
lock between growls. I glare back and curl my toes.
Each one a worm-clone, each one dancing
to the flow of blood
pounding, building, in my head.
Because I hang backwards off my bed.
I blush,
but still the worms dance.

I wrap my arms once, twice,
three times around the pillow and I spin
off the bed, into the piles
of the carpet – lush. High pile.
Let me rest here with the worms.