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