Nightmares stick to you. To the farthest reaches of the mind. The unfamiliar, shaky, scary, fall of a ladder, tremble of the ground beneath your feet, metalclanging feeling of dread bringing you down to your side. Unfeelingly because eyes wide awake, it's only a dull pain in the strangest parts of the mind, a stretched throat phantomy and real while the imaginary slivers of scare stick to your lovely smooth surface. Hitting on nightly peace with a shrill, convoluted behaviour which runs away shouting silently while the thought of it hasn't formed yet.
And you lie there wondering what realness caused disabling self harming shit scaring, dull paining strangeness. Which sticks to you like gum and you need something to wipe off the residue, after pulling it off, squeezing it off, trying not to pay attention to a sticky blob. Someone's words might stick to it. Some might just make the surface smooth again. But which are which and where are they. Look. Try. Talk. Desperately. And get nothing back because it's gum. It dries off. It's gum. Sometimes it hardens up into ugliness. But it's gum. It's on your mind.
Not anyone else's. It is your mind. Only yours. However much you wish it wasn't. Didn't have to be. That cannot be. Because it's only yours. Unlike other things you're in love with. Leaving permanent indelible marks on places which feel familiar but they shake you up like a ghost under your bed or a bad dream's end.