I never dream of angels.

My dreams feel like another timeline.

Like something that has yet to happen but probably won't because it doesn't exist here.

My dreams feel like I have nothing left to complete, but haven't completed anything at the same time.

I destroy relationships in my dreams, and I do nothing to wake myself.

There is a void in my chest afterwards, and I am tempted to attempt it in real life.

I never dream of angels, only creatures with eight legs, four eyes, and several tongues.

They come to take me with them, for the sins I had the courage to commit and for those I have yet do complete.

Some of the most painful things come to me in my dreams.

I put these on myself, during my pursuit for perfection in the people around me.

I corrupt them all in the end.

In my dreams, I make mental lists.

Every shiver and trepidation, damnation and repulsion.

They all get added in.

I overlook them, every red flag.

So that if it gets to the point where I start forgetting how long that list is, then maybe it will finally give me the courage to step away without completely puncturing my soul.

My dreams have turned into my nightmares, and my nightmares into my reality.