A draft is blowing from the electrical socket
Metallic whirring
Gentle whistling
As cold air seeps into my room
A passageway to the inner life of those who live within the walls
Like the air holes we call stars poked by the hands of god in the night sky
A cardboard box we call home
We rub our gums against the corners
Hoping to soften the container
To make the opening just big enough
To breath
I'm afraid I won't be able to comprehend what I might see
If I were to look through those two slots
So I plug in my box fan instead
And hope to conceal the whispers
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Thoughts
PoetryA collection of mostly free verse poems and short stories. Sometimes it is nice to simply clear your head. *Trigger warnings: descriptions of disturbing themes such as: body horror, death, interactions with the uncanny, topics in biology, and suici...
