bete noir

my dreams are title-less,
though their plots are thick
with regression,
conjuring emotion,
suppressed by day
and later, rebuked.

my brain is in two:
wakefulness
and malicious chimera;
a paradoxical hunger for sleep
and the dread of subconscious somnambulation.
I'm from my pillow,
to the staircase,
off of which I cast myself
into learned helplessness.
my vital fluids drip
out of my mouth,
over the balcony,
and onto the floor.