1. I get married. My dress is red only because every inch of my body is bleeding. Nobody stops me. I am dragged down the aisle in beat to the piano playing. Duh, duh, duh, duh. I don’t scream. I get married.
2. I’m held down by several hands. They are laughing as they cut designs into me. There’s penetration. There’s menacing guffaws. I can’t understand what’s so funny. I don’t scream. I know by now it’s never ending. The scream grows like a tumor deep within my belly. I feel it growing fingernails and eyelids, it’s own wild heartbeat.
3. People are reading my poetry. The other bartender asks me if all my poems are so graphically sexual, or just the few he’s read. I blush and stutter that I am not my pseudonym. People know exactly where I’ve been. I wake up with a start, frantically checking to be sure I haven’t published anything.
(This last one is both a recurring nightmare and actually happening.)