Pesadilla

Scratch, scratch, scratch,scratch -
then the fizz and the crackle
of a lighted match.
The light flows upward from his chin,
you wouldn't believe the trouble I'm in.
Snick, snick, snick, snick:
his lips keep on moving
and I feel sick.
I feel the sandpaper scrape of his hand
the very next thing is the last I can stand.
Scream, scream, scream, scream:
then the sob and the sniffle
at the end of a dream.