I wake up inside my dress. Something is moving underneath the dirty lace. It feels wet and dark. It might be the river.
I get out of bed and pull on my sweater. It doesn’t smell like him anymore. There’s no need to be quiet. He took the twins months ago. No one is sleeping in this house.
Down the stairs and outside are the forest and the moon. The moon’s light reaches the daffodils, turns them honeydew. They glow, light the way to the river.
At the river I look into the dark water. The fish are sleeping while the current carries them to the lake.
I scratch my skin. Blood sprouts and blooms slowly. I put my tongue to it. It’s sweet like black raspberries. I want to sleep, to be carried.

Elizabeth Schmuhl is a writer, dancer, and artist whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Michigan Quarterly Review, PANK, Glass Press of The Future, and elsewhere. Her genre-bending, multidisciplinary book, Presto Agitato: A Dictionary of Modern Movement, will be out from Zoo Cake Press in fall of 2015, with an additional artist edition published by dancing girl press in 2016. She also illustrates essays for The Rumpus.