Stars chase the moon, sheep commit suicide, warm milk and mama’s kisses laced with cyanide (monsters crowd the closet), my brain chasing itself in circles. There are six hours left until my alarm goes off, if I fall asleep in five minutes I won’t be ALL that tired. Butterflies fly across the room, blue, blue, green. Two, three, four, six. Counting sheep, they say helps you fall asleep. But what happens when the sheep jump straight into nooses? Committing suicide, whelping in pain! That’s where my mind is. The butterflies are getting their wings clipped by some strange man in the corner, he’s wearing red tinted glasses. He’s a collector of rare butterfly wings, he owns a museum. He has on a kahi colored safari hat and his mouth is contorted into an evil grin. I hate him, he’s a malicious man.
“Get out of my room!” I yell at the top of my lungs. He pulls a flamethrower out of his back pocket and begins to hurl fire toward me. I throw myself to the floor, and begin to army crawl under the bed.
“If you dare lay your eyes on my precious butterflies, expect to be burned.” He says, right as my alarm goes off.