Finger Soldiers

The image portrayed on the back of my eyelids is my only solace of comfort.
I wait now to dream; to wake; to dream.
My fingers itch for acidity, the backs of my teeth longing for the ever-refreshing
graze of knuckles.
Meals stretched along psychological conveyer belts, gray plate after gray plate,
fork after knife,
calorie after
calorie.
My fingers drum against the table. The dosage of my pills goes up.
Dreams begin to morph into reality, my pupils widening at the sound of war drums.
I look down at my hand and the soldiers march on.

"You don’t look like a rail anymore! I’m proud of you."
I looked at him, his eyes drooped into bags of alcoholism and sleepless nights.
I tried not to cry, sucking back my beer quickly. Sleep
would come soon.
Wandering away he left me gutless. Let’s prove you have one.
Ready for my dress rehearsal I leant over; stomach nervous, brain racing, fingers shaking in
excitement.
They said I gave the best performance and I promised I’d
be back for another one man show.
My head hasn’t hit the pillow yet.
Just let me fucking dream without war drums.