Lady of leisure

In my dreams, Pedro Pascal wears a crocheted cardigan and calls me his baby girl

In my dreams, Pedro Pascal wears a crocheted cardigan and calls me his baby girl; I shiver and the sea sings to me, threatening to reveal the secrets of its coldest, deepest waters -
I want to know, I want to know, I want to know.

I want to swallow forgotten knowledge, I want to pull oxygen from waves and grow gills and claws,
I want soft hands to stroke the dip between my rib cage and hip and send me back to sleep, silk pillow, silk sheets and a mouthful of sweet peppermint oil -
in my dreams I don’t sweat, I don’t cry.
I no longer wish to carry heavy things, I’d rather lie facedown in grass, feel an ant crawl across my neck,
and lick the earth to taste all the stories buried in it. I want to forget the time, no more stomach-sick rush.
I can’t bear to read an email these days, unless it’s the very best kind of news, received whilst lying on a large, hot rock, cooking slowly in the sun,
lizard-girl testing the air with her tongue, prepared to lose a limb if ever trapped and grow it back quick-quick, like it’s inherent -
in my dreams my blood doesn’t bleed, my thoughts don’t curdle.

I want to wear softness and nuance like a corset and improve my posture without having to work at it. I want to have more male friends and I want it not to cost me anything at all. The purse is empty, I can’t demand to be humanised anymore. That's why my heart feels like it’s going to burst whenever I see a man with nail polish and a smile that tells me he’s going to be just delightful, relax weary woman,
no one here is going to hurt us, not at all, not at all, not at all!
I’ll take his hand and dance the way I do when no one is panting to undress me,
platonic electricity sparking up from my feet.
We don’t want each other that way and it’s still delicious to touch warm palm to warm palm -
in my dreams men and women aren’t afraid of each other, no one ever suffocates.
I guess that’s why I feel most sane and most in love with myself in a large tent full of Latin music and heavenly bodies,
and when I’ve had enough, I’ll drag myself up a hill at 4 am with pistachio cheesecake,
turn myself into a constellation for the night, or maybe infinitely.

In my dreams, I’ve always wondered what it feels like to be celestial,
in my dreams, I do not know what it means to yearn.