Mint Leaves

I had a dream about a mansion where I fell asleep for days. When I finally awoke and left, the house was encircled by autumn trees. I was different, with eyes and hair of mint leaves, and four bleeding incisions on my left arm, trickling down to my palm, resembling foliage. Stacked on top of each other, as if they were falling from a branch. 

The house was warm and bright, I felt like sunset rays were staring into my eyes at all times. But there was something unsettling about those halls with padded carpet and portraits with the same eyes. Staircases that lead to nowhere, dawn poking through curtains placed on west windows. Dark rooms with walls of glass in broad daylight and shining halls that had been boarded up for years. 

I left the house when I finally awoke. My last days of sleep were spent in complete confusion, not being able to tell if I was awake or not. When I did awake, into my real life, it took me a while to recognise where I was.

I rose from my bed and looked into the mirror, only to see that the tip of my nose was sunburned.