Another version of me died last night.

Sometimes, in my dreams, I get snippets of a life that isn’t mine. It is mine but it isn’t.

Sometimes I’m a different race. Sometimes I’m a different gender. Sometimes it's a different era, but I’m always me. And I’m always met with death.

I’ve been a soldier sleeping by a campfire, awoken by screams in a language I don’t understand, then an ax to the head.

I’ve leaned too far out of a high window and lost my balance.

I’ve been held under shallow water by arms stronger than mine.

I’ve been in a hospital bed, slipping in and out of consciousness with a baby bundled in my arms, as my husband holds my hand and tells me how much he loves me.

Every time I wake up crying, wailing, mourning a life I never lived. For people I don’t know. For me. I can smell the fire, I can feel the fear, I can taste his kiss.

I love to sleep but I don’t like to dream.

Fractured moonlight spills across my room, giving the tears on my satin pillowcase deep shadows to recess into. I flip over the too-warm thing, its softness not as inviting as it had been when I went to bed hours ago.

At least it feels like hours ago. I can’t be certain unless I check the time.

I don’t want to.

My work clothes hang on the back of my closet door. A plain black dress and knitted cardigan, ironed and waiting for my commute into the city. My plain messenger bag and purse sit on my desk chair, packed with everything I could possibly need for the workday.

It’s always hard for me to get back to sleep so I usually prep for the next day. I don’t bother this time, I just lean back and close my eyes.

I wish all the other me’s would leave me alone. Wish I didn’t have to get up so early to get to work. I wish I didn’t live alone. Maybe my heart wouldn’t ache so badly if someone would share this burden with me. I wish…

The sky is lighter than it should be for the middle of the night.

Damn. I guess I can at least have a nice big breakfast before work.