Dana Jean Rider

Crawl Inside

When I fall asleep with my mouth open you crawl inside, up my tongue. Down my throat, whispering your evils, you slide. You’re inside my stomach now, tying knots in my intuition, destroying my trust in a “gut feeling”. You represent yourself in my dreams as a stoic, but a lover. Tender arms to fall into at last. But when my bloodshot eyes snap open, you’re laughing. Maniacal, silent, taunting. It’s killing me as slowly as possible, making sure I feel the agony of every inch of my body you’ve infiltrated with false promises and unspoken jeers. You are twenty miles away, or perhaps four thousand, but there you are, ever present — waiting for my guard to drop, waiting for a moment of happiness so that you can pounce once more, diving into the deepest realms of my being I once thought reserved for myself alone.

Dana has been a language enthusiast since Catholic school teachers yelled at her for swearing in middle school. She writes mostly flash and short stories, and in her precious free time reads and plays with her pet rabbit, Whiskey. She recently rediscovered a love of cooking and is eagerly anticipating the freshness and sun of the summer. Presently, she is a grant writer a nonprofit and is applying to graduate school.

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