The Suspicion

I have a suspicion:
my subconscious is trying
to ruin me.

It is plagued with horrors.
I have seen four murders this week
in my dreams.

It is littered with destruction.
Terrorist revolutions occur on my
doorstep.

It is besieged with devastation.
Old flames coax unwelcome memories
to resurface.

It is fraught with the bizarre.
The old man leering, the frozen lions head,
holding the shoes of the killer.

It is overwrought with fear.
Injecting impending doom into
the every day.

I have a suspicion:
my subconscious is trying
to ruin me.

I pick up a scalpel.
I slice my scalp from ear to ear
and my subconscious falls out.

A sticky black mess.
Agglomeration of harrowing thoughts
spilled onto the floor.

I watch them.
My tormentors writhe in agony,
squabbling.

I pity them.
They too must have dreams,
like us.

It is never ending.
My subconscious mind has its own
subconscious.

I have a suspicion:
my subconscious is trying
to ruin me.

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