The main problem with being trapped in these brambles is that I worry about leaving too much behind, snagged on the thorns. I'm never very whole to begin with, riddled with blank spaces, and struggling to get out only drives me deeper in. It's the ribbons and hunks of flesh stuck on the branches that bother me, less than the wounds themselves. I'm not sure there's enough of me to go around.
In my dream you exhaled a cloud of bees and they swarmed, stinging my hands until they were plump with venom. I couldn't move my fingers, but I could cover my eyes until they blocked out the world.
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