step inside, my mausoleum

I will stop my nightmares.
Or my nightmares will stop me.

And I was sitting there wearing a skirt too short to wear to church and it was black and tweed and menacing. I was sitting there folding programs with an end and a beginning and there was a face that looked all too familiar. He was buried in a mausoleum. Right then, I was bombarded with messages of death and I decided, right then that:

I have been to too many funerals and
I don't want to hear or say or read about death anymore--

Because death gives me nightmares.
The kind of nightmares that after, I wake up coiled in my Ikea bedsheets.

Maybe sometime between this nightmare of death and this daydream of life there will be a little less hurt and a little more sleep.