I see ——— so much from above in dreams that I try to forget
                     what it looks like. Here, it is industrial and creaky, rusted.
I know I cannot leave the car, or push the driver, my ———, anymore. I am not
                     in a plane, flying overhead. I am on the road, so high up on the stilted road. 
Even bringing me here
                                                                         is a form of torture.

We arrive at the hotel.                                                I need to find someone to talk to, to tell. 
                   I find the concierge with his black bluetooth and lean in, tell him I am being
controlled. He says , energetically , that this happens all the time.

                               I act complacent. I wait for them to take her away.        She is in makeup, in 
                     front of one of those dressing room mirrors with all the bulbs lit,
                                              changing her face.

Her hair turns red, long and stick-straight. Her skin becomes paler and she thins.
                                             There is no trace of her former self.                           Only I know.
                                             The concierge never comes.

I watch as she traces red lines across her eyelids. She looks in the mirror and not 
at me. She says              I’m ready