I dream both awake and asleep about
your head splattered across the road,
the call I'll get in the middle of class.
I'll cry and run from the room to the hospital.
The teacher stops teaching and the class watches indifferent.
What do they care? They don't know me.
But none of this matters. It's not real.
You are not lying dead on the road. You're at work.
The class goes on without me as I dream.
No one is looking at me-- except for the professor
But she's waiting for an answer I don't have
For I'm busy dreaming horrible death scenes for those I love most.
I know I shouldn't be thinking this way
But I think about it, regardless of what's proper.
People get put on medication for thinking this way.
People get put in institutions for thinking this way.
But I won't get put on medication or in an institution
Because people don't know what I'm really thinking.
They think me the well-mannered preacher's kid.
They think me sweet and can do no wrong.
They see me forever as a little girl in the first pew.
They see my thoughts innocent and uncorrupted.
What would they do if they knew what I thought, felt?
Run? Hide in horror? Would they turn away in shame?
That would be the best, wisest choice to make.
Not even I like being left alone with my thoughts.
These thoughts of pain and death not for me but everyone else.
These thoughts that turn me into a horrible monster.
I am a monster no one sees or guesses exists.
I am the monster waiting to get out and make fantasy reality.
Stop me before it's too late.
