This is not my dream.
I feel each individual vertebrae snap and crack.
I stretch on the bouncy wooden floor, my head reaching my pointed knee as
mists of darkness cloud the room.

A greasy, large man approaches me,
sweat dripping off of his strained pink face.
He wants something, but vanishes.

I rise with a start and approach the vast mirror.
My body sharpens, pulling taut.
My hair is tinted like a rose.
A tattered rose,
a trampled rose,
a sick rose,
a pale, lifeless pink.

My cheeks, the same color, sit gauntly atop my hollow, concave jowls.

I cry projectile tears,
splattering and skewing the reflection before me.
Happy tears.