Someone heard the explosion
or maybe it was the sky cracking its own skull open.
The air twitches.
The ground gnaws.
Everything vibrates like a nerve that refuses anesthesia.
The glass on the floor is no longer glass.
It is a swarm of mouths,
crooked, trembling,
chewing syllables that used to be your name.
They spit them back out in wrong shapes,
as if language itself had been dropped from a great height.
I step forward,
the world convulses.
The shards laugh in fractured vowels.
They demand tribute,
memory,
the soft cartilage of whatever silence you still carry.
The shadows of yesterday crawl back,
but they are mangled,
limping,
stitched together with the wrong darkness.
They cling to walls,
to your spine,
to the breath you thought was yours.
Yesterday is not repeating,
it is glitching,
looping in spasms,
a ritual performed by a machine
that hates its own programming.
At the center, the explosion keeps pulsing.
A mechanical heart,
a ruptured engine,
a drum beating inside a wound that refuses to close.
The world cracks along invisible seams,
begging for someone,
anyone,
to confess they heard the first detonation
and the thousand aftershocks still happening
inside the bones of the day.
