Quiet Anxiety to Sheer Terror

I carried a shovel like a secret,

its blade dull with the weight of silence,

while the ribbon I tied around my wrist

frayed and snapped with every step farther from the fire.

The teapot sang songs I couldn’t understand,

a maraca shook in my hands; unsteady,

like my breath, like the sky falling in slow motion,

from quiet anxiety to sheer terror,

from whispered fears to the scream that doesn’t break the air.

I dug holes for what I hoped to bury,

the mistakes I carried like stones,

the sharp edges of a moment

where the world slipped and I forgot how to catch myself.

The ribbon twisted around my fingers

until it bled stories I couldn’t tell,

and the maraca’s rhythm was just the sound

of a heart pounding in a dark room

that knows someone else is watching.

I poured tea from the teapot,

the steam rose like smoke signals,

but no one came to answer,

only the echo of my own footsteps

swallowed in the dirt.