Swallow the tattoos seared onto the cup that I bring to my lips.
Stay where you are. The door is aflame, its gold-plated lock as tender as the morning light.
Pierce the pillow full of echoes rumbling throughout a theater of violence.
We build our own prisons, the burning palace that is the heart guarded by haunted bars.
Holding the hands of a clock, clinching through cracked teeth. Don’t wake up.
Tick- here we are again. Tock- it’s not like it was.
Foot on my throat, take my breath as an offering.
Devour the whisper spilling from my gut, a soft song of oppression.
Who have you hurt?
Sharpen your phantom knife on the stone that is my fist.
A heavenly blade it is.
Arthur Peña, 2020