Burton's alter-ego



Waking up.
Sitting on the bed.
Shivering.
Cannot breathe anymore.
Touching my eyes. Still there.
Checking my belly, still shut.
No butcher knife in my hand… Just sweat.
Sheets all wet of my own perspiration. No blood or anything of such a kind.
Dehydrated. Feel thirsty now.

Grab the bottle of water next to the bed. Can’t get enough. Never enough.
A ray of light through the curtains. The sun is rising, daylight coming.

Begging to be kept awake.
Kept me out of my own brain. I forgot since a long while now the meaning of sweet dreams.
I don’t want to fall asleep again. Leave me alone bloody sand-seller! I don’t want to see you ever again. If it is the curse I have to go through to get the rest my body is asking for… I prefer to give up.

Being the hero of a Tim Burton’s movie is everything but sweet. Makes me sick.

Performing a self-abortion, cutting of your belly in the shape of a square to take out your own organs and extract a moving worm supposed to be a foetus… Is that supposed to be enjoyable?

I wish I would still be able to dream of the Prince Charming instead. That I would still be able to believe in such a fairy tale.

Last night was the other one which comes back again and again and again.
My head has been chopped off and my hands are still able to squeeze my neck to extract a strange black-bloody liquid in a pot And my headless body remains, standing in front of a small table squeezing Does not stop squeezing Of the back liquid gets out wraiths, ghosty faces, looking like the face of the character in the Munch painting I cannot stare at anymore, The Scream They come up to my ears and whisper things I cannot get (my dreams have been soundless since I was a child…) but I see their lips moving and what they seem to say does not look friendly whatsoever I want to run I want to escape Then I realise my feet have taken the shape of roots, growing along my legs I am stuck I cannot run I want to scream but no sound is coming out
Then.

Waking up.
Sitting on the bed.
Shivering.
Cannot breathe anymore.
Touching my eyes. Still there.
Checking my belly, still shut.
No butcher knife in my hand… Just sweat.
Sheets all wet of my own perspiration. No blood or anything of such a kind.
Dehydrated. Feel thirsty now…