text: Sometimes it’s a dream so good that, as reality pulls at you, you dig desperate claws into it. *The feeling is so nice here. There’s no reason really to leave. Let me stay here a little while longer.* Sometimes it's a nightmare that wakes you in frenzied fear; then the wash of relief. *Of course I’m not drowning in fire. There’s no pain. I’m safe in my bed and I think I’ll have pancakes for breakfast.* But what if your brain can't tell which is real? Is it the pain or is it the pancakes? Do nightmares split open and bleed? My fucked up brain can't tell sometimes. Sometimes it sees things that aren't there. Sometimes it hears dead animals. It brings my nightmares to life, my busted brain, so demons have always been very real to me. Of course, no one gives fuck all what’s real to me. And why would they? My brain can't be trusted so neither can I. Everyone’s been telling me as much for most of my life. But you guys understand, right? We're the same. The sick ones. The dark ones. We live on the fringes and we don’t need sleep. That’s why I come here. To feel understood. I guess that’s what I’m supposed to get from therapy. "No judgement zone." That's the idea, right? I’ll bet you guys have therapists too. Is yours useless? I hate mine. I keep telling her about the new things I’m seeing -- how they’re different. She won’t listen because it’s all in my head and I can't be trusted. She changes my meds to chase it away. But see, this shit won’t *be* chased away like the rest. This is something new. That’s my problem right now, guys. I know what I am -- I'm used to being what I am and seeing what I see -- but I’m telling you, this is different. Like now. Erica is no demon. Erica is beautiful. I once saw her swallow the sun. Erica is kind to me -- her warm hand is on my shoulder. She’s always smiling at me. I would never hurt Erica. I know I wouldn't because I know I couldn't. *I know that.* I know it like I know what's happening here isn't happening. I know the dead, spider-like duchess isn't bathing in my blood again; isn't spinning her acidic web and tempting me to join her. I know the hanged men aren't gasping and kicking in their burned, black trees; aren't hissing "*Swing Low, Sweet Chariot"* through sewn-up lips, aren't choking on swollen tongues. I know the bloated, blue, balloon men aren't crawling on my ceiling; aren't blowing big, blue smoke rings with small, blue mouths and spitting yellow teeth at me. I've got them figured out, I'm pretty sure -- you know, the new things I’ve been seeing -- my brain can't tell the pancakes from the pain. It's only a new nightmare. A nightmare that split open and bled. I can’t wait to get home, to get back to her -- to Erica. She’ll be there waiting for me with a smile. I nearly lost her once, but I found a way to keep her. Erica isn't covered in blood and she's isn't in pieces. Erica’s right here and she's whole. She can't be this cold because she swallowed the sun. I can feel her warmth -- her hand is always on my shoulder. Look, she's still smiling! See how she shines? Erica isn’t dead. I didn’t swim in her. I wouldn’t. She swallowed the sun and it's smiling at me.