Growing Claws

Reoccurring dreams are funny in the way that your gut tells you that they mean something,

In the way that the human brain says that there must be symbolism,

In the way that we can’t accept that something that keeps happening doesn’t always have any major significance at all.

Reoccurring dreams are funny in the way that they leave you uneasy,

Prickled goose bumps,

Slimy worms in your chest,

A bushel of rotten apple cores in the pit of your stomach.

Reoccuring dreams are funny, but not in the way of laughter, crinkled eyes, or fun.

I had one, as a child, a reoccurring dream.

One that’s funny to look back on, in the way of

“Ah, how hilariously perceptive,” and I’m not laughing at all.

It was always nighttime, in this dream,

And it was always in a zoo,

And I somehow always knew, in the way of dreams, that just outside the zoo’s empty grounds there was a city full of exceptionally oblivious people.

So many people, outside.

The zoo was always quiet, always dark, always empty, and the dream’s starring role wasn’t real me,

But was instead a ballerina version of me that had been plucked from a music box and set into this unnerving world of dream reality, where everything was unfamiliar and strange.

Me-the-ballerina knew only the point of my toes,

The quiet swish of my tulle,

The artful grace of my outstretched arms.

I would dance past cages of animals,

Screaming monkeys and teeth baring lions,

Past rows of food stands full of cinnamon sticks and cotton candy,

And the smells of buttery popcorn and sweating workers followed me like a wafting cloud.

My face was always furrowed in panic,

Eyes wide enough to see the white, white, white around the irises, nostrils flared and lines creased high onto my forehead, mouth agape in a noiseless cry for help.

I was always being chased by something, always turning a corner looking for someone, anyone, to help me

And always coming face to face with some animal that was unfathomably angry at me or nothing at all.

There was someone I had to find,

Someone who could help,

I knew they were there, just lurking somewhere in the shadows with the intuition that once I finally made some sort of right decision in this world that was so unfamiliar to me,

Then they would decide it was a good time to come out and help me,

Steer me in the right direction,

Get me out of this dark, empty, screaming place.

But every turn I made led me deeper into the zoo, the only lights I could find like red exit signs that never had any exits.

My panic would permeate the dream like the soles of hand me down sneakers, like tuna left out in the sun,

Until it seemed like the whole dream was vibrating with a pulsating type of fear existing in a time loop of run, run,

RUN!

Heart in my throat, permanently arched arms shaking with strain and clammy with sweat, the pounding of blood in my ears and throbbing the veins at my temples, my tiptoes leaping in balletic strides over the wood chip covered grounds one moment and then—

Free fall.

Hard land,

Snapping bones like pretzel sticks,

My face rebounded off of the ground,

Blood filled my bitten mouth,

I looked up with shaking effort to hope wildly, desperately, that I had made a good enough choice for the person to come,

Finally,

To my aid.

Only to be met with the round, yellow eyes,

The curved fangs,

Talons ripped seamlessly into the dirt,

Tail flicked back and forth in the air like a cobra ready to strike—

A tiger.

Its entire beastly body was coiled.

Waiting.

Waiting for my movement, for the moment when it would pounce.

That’s when I would wake up, every time.

And every time I wished that me-the-ballerina, in the logic of a dreamscape, would grow sharp teeth and fangs of my own.

Not to fight the tiger, poised and ready,

But to rip out the throat of whoever I thought I had to be good enough for, in order to be worthy of protection.