Literature
Soldiers
I don't rest beneath your blanket.
It glides like a tortured animal,
earning its own pain, counting
scars that won't close, whispering
numbers that sound like warnings.
Your rooms breathe in patterns I
can predict, but I don't trust.
The walls sharpen, corners shift,
waiting for someone to blame.
Time marches through here
like a glass soldier, each step
a shatter, a fracture dragging
a sun that bursts into sparks
across the trembling floor.
Your sunshine arrives like a
thief rehearsing innocence,
light spilling from its pockets
as if it wounds the night to get
here.
I remember what
you bury: the coffee stain
blooming into a carnivorous
flower, petals shaped like open
mouths that echo the scream
you hid beneath your ribs.
Your laughter wears a raincoat
stitched from whispers, broken
seeds primed to explode when
someone walks by. The rain
kicks every door open, proving
it can.
You live in a world governed
by machines that think in unison,
grinding bones
