Say Yes
a night-scene for the barely breathing
Wake up.
Middle of the night. No warning. No sound. Just that strange electric pulse, like something just left your dream too fast.
You sit up. Thirsty like your mouth forgot how to close. Reach for the cup on your nightstand. Not a glass, a chipped ceramic thing you bought at a secondhand store because it looked like loneliness.
Drink.
Too fast.
Spill down your chin. Let it.
You stand. Barefoot. Quiet.
Walk to the window. Crack it open. Let the air bite you.
Look out at the sleeping city, its windows dark, its streets soft, its distant lights blinking like forgotten prayers.
Breathe in.
Deep.
Hold it.
Now exhale.
Still.
Stay.
Find the shirt. His shirt. The one that didn’t burn in the campfire you lit on the night you ended everything. Put it on. Let the cold cotton cling to your damp skin. Let it drink the sweat that shame never asked for. Wipe your face with the sleeve. Squeeze your eyes shut. Open them again. Not to see better— to remember where you are. Turn.
Find your phone.
Hold it like a relic.
Try to remember the password you set yesterday in a fit of defiance.
Unlock it.
Write a message.
Delete it.
Dial. Hang up. Breathe.
Try again. This time, send it. Feel your heart slam against your ribs as if it could claw its way through the bone, tear through the skin, and escape before your mind follows.
You tell yourself: it’s just your brain. A stupid chemical trick. A nightmare leftover from a body that doesn’t know it’s safe yet. Find your lighter. Remember you quit smoking. Regret it. Go back to the window.
Look down at the pavement and up at the black mirror.
You call it “night.”
it’s your own reflection,
asking questions you don’t want to answer.
You still have time. There’s still no reply. So wash your face. Delete the message, just in case. Rip off the sticky shirt. Throw it in the machine. Pour the powder. Don’t measure it. Turn the water on. Ice cold. Cup your hands. Splash your face.
Look in the mirror.
Ask yourself:
Is that me?
Really?
Are you sure no one’s standing behind you?
Wait.
Incoming call.
Pick up.
No voice.
Just breathing.
Doorbell.
You open it.
Say “hello.”
Try to.
Notice how your skin burns under hands that are colder than they should be.
Watch them.
Study the shape of their body.
Do the voice and face match?
What about the scent?
The taste?
Does anything inside you twitch?
And if it does
say it. say it. say it. say it. say it.
say
it
Say why your whole body wants to say yes.
Say it.
And mean it.
Survival isn’t free.
Support the chaos that somehow makes sense
Truth is palatable —
just not polite.
I write it how it hurts.
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Dear Ms. Maruta,
A powerful, haunting piece. The unsettling feeling of waking in the middle of the night, caught between dream and reality, feels like being pulled into the raw edge of midnight... where memory, desire, and fear collide. I love how the ordinary details carry so much emotional weight: the chipped ceramic cup and “his shirt,” the question “Is that me? Really?” The incoming call and doorbell blur the line between intimacy and dread, while the command to “say it” builds tension, pointing to desire and making the ending feel both inevitable and terrifying.
It’s a piece that lingers long after reading. Love it. Sometimes I wake in the night, wondering the same... thinking of my dreams, sometimes visions, sometimes visitors.
I leave with a quote from Heȟáka Sápa (“Black Elk”), a Lakota holy man, visionary, and healer of the Oglala Lakota (Sioux) people.
“Sometimes dreams are wiser than waking.”
🌙 Sweet dreams
Steve