Last night, I dreamt about you.
We’re both at this playground we used to frequent when we were kids. You’re standing at the same place where you first learned how to ride a bicycle. The place is an undeniable replication of our childhood memory except for the fact that it is now barren and smells a lot like a festering field of carcass and neglected corpses. This is also the place where we watched some runaway bury amputated parts of a human body at the dead of night. This is also the place where a much older Boy forced you to close your mouth around his sloppy lips. He tasted like eggplant and the nausea of its taste lingered in your mouth for weeks like late night ghosts floating over a lake. You still can’t bear to stand an eggplant without cringing. Even the mere sight of aubergine churns nausea inside the whirlpools of your stomach.
You are wearing the same white floral dress your mother bought for you on your 16th birthday. I always loved how there was a regular pattern of flowers descending through your waistline, the pink flowers almost touching your knees where the fabric of your dress fluttered against your knees. I could always trace my maps, my treasure hunting trails through the falling flowers like tracing constellations. I swear I have discovered the Big Dipper in the patterns of your floral dress.
You are carrying a shovel in your right hand. You are pointing at the same spot where you had dug your toes in silence when the Boy slipped his paws under your floral dress. You are trying to tell me something but each time you open your mouth to speak, a flash of light illuminates. There are no sounds, only intermittent flashes of light as your jaws try to articulate words and phrases lost somewhere in the bruises of time. You start digging, unearthing masses of land, exhuming the dead from their slumber. Your eyes are no longer the dark pools of hazel, now they are a spectrum, a band of iridescence. Your unwashed hair is a tangle of lies and denial cascading down your face, their ends curling at your waistline where the flowers continue their unending descent. Everything is tinted a grayscale except for the flowers in your dress. They are a striking pink.
You hand me the shovel and point to this crevice of a scar. I continue the unearthing for you while your jaws screw and unscrew into periodic bursts of glow. I imagine you are telling me about the Boy or your 16th birthday or your mother pacing around the living room of your house. But there is no way I can know.
Suddenly I feel like my legs have grown saw-toothed tap roots like I am transforming into a tree like my torso is now a trunk, my arms branches. I hear you scream. This is the only sound that emanates from you. It is a piercing shriek, an unwavering frequency like claws against a wooden board. But you put your hand on my shoulder as if to say- go ahead, we have a memory to bury.
You allow me to put you down on the frigidness of the mud. I gently place you in the gaping mouth where the shovel swallowed away parts of the earth. I cover you in mud from the head to the toe. I pat the soil, plant some seeds, water them and walk away. I imagine the mud seeping into your nostrils as you inhale what is left of the oxygen.
Tomorrow the Boy will write an obituary for you. For the way your mouth shut around the cavernous hollows of his own. He will write how his paws crawled under your floral dress and left clues inside your thighs like footprints on wet cement. He will write how sweet your nectar tasted.
Come morning, I’ll dream of you again. But this time, there will be nothing left to bury.