Don’t dream of anything

I don’t dream of anything.
I sit waiting for the
next show to come on, or
for my hair to fall down, so
I can sweep the little nothings
under the bed I never touch.

I don’t dream of you.
Instead, the night follows me
insisting I kiss him, but I
won’t because that would be
enabling the creep, who I
forget stalks me.

I have no grand dreams.

I don’t know what people mean
by Hell or Heaven
except that I will die soon, so
I spend my days not thinking
about you or my mom.

What do you dream when I
tell you I wouldn’t want you?
Probably, nothing…

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