My lover’s dreams are ripe peaches, freshly plucked. Sticky juice runs down my chin when I sink my teeth into lush fantasies, and the flavor explodes on my taste buds like firecrackers. I devour Magdalena’s dreams bit by bit until I am licking the plate like a dog. However, my lover’s dreams weren’t always sweet. They were the bitter sludge left behind in a coffee machine’s paper filter; they were the curdled chunks floating in a jug of rotten milk; they were the brown wax fished out of a filthy ear canal; they were the choleric acid expelled from a distressed stomach.
Broken adults create broken children. Magdalena was one such child, but it was only during the summer before college that she whispered her secret to me. Her breath was as muggy as the suffocating heat plaguing the entire town. When her confession ended, she pulled back and chewed on her chapped lips — tearing off loose skin with her teeth and swallowing it. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. We went our separate ways once the season ended and eventually drifted apart, but I harbored her story between my intestines for years. I resented the parasite she implanted, but that sentiment disappeared once I realized that Magdalena didn’t tell me of her abuse to torture me with my ignorance; she told me because she trusted me.
We reunited at a pride parade once the mess of our 20s ended. I felt her glossy, soft lips against mine, but the aftermath of the scab she had eaten that humid day lingered on her tongue. It was bland compared to the miasma saturating her nights once the lazy evenings of tangled legs and sweet words fell to Sandman’s inevitable attack. I dived into her brain when she began to toss and turn and ate until her pinched face relaxed. I was left nauseous every night, but it was worth it to give Magdalena a peaceful rest.
However, broken children grow into broken adults. When threatened, which was often, she would incinerate me with her caustic words. I bore the brunt of these episodes as the person closest to her, but I gave as much as I received. The volatility nearly caused separation. However, broken adults don’t need to stay broken. Magdalena fought hard in her 30s to heal. I was at her side throughout — eating those treacherous dreams as each cathartic sob gave way to the buried sweetness of her psyche. Therapy broke the amber suffocating her wounded inner child, but it was Magdalena who wiped away the fragments clinging to her and held her until they merged into one.
So my lover’s dreams are of fresh harvests. There will always be a sour strawberry in the batch or a hard, white cherry, but I ensure–and will continue to ensure–peaceful nights for her.