Calabi Yau's Silence

The ceiling is breathing.
Not with lungs,
but with the slow, wet expansion of a bruised throat.
Something is not under the bed.
it is the bed.
You feel the mattress coil around your spine like a tongue.

The Dirac Sea above
Mandelbrot’s Iku-Turso in the benthic entropy

Don't blink.
The silence has a texture now:
the sound of hair growing through your pillow.
The clock doesn't tick; it chews.
Every second is a wet snap of a joint being relocated.

This house remembers you,
but it remembers you as a mistake.
Violet midnights leak from the floorboards,
A decomposing smile opens in the wall,
You realize the teeth are your own.
Chirality of the void

The Ocean is a Wound.
It doesn't roar;
it gurgles like a punctured lung.
Hysteresis of the soul
You are being dreamed by something that hates you
The salt tastes of things that preceded the stars
Below the ships, abhorrent eyes the size of cities are waiting
They don’t want your soul.
They want to watch your nerves twitch until the suns go cold.

You are a vessel.
Non-Abelian screams
A black widow crawls out of your mouth.
Right from your vocal cords.
Stochastic screams, produced a dry, rhythmic clicking.
They are translating you.
Into silence

The frost is inside your bone marrow now.
A grinding, crystalline hunger.
Tachyonic rot of a sunken God
There is no "after."
There is only the magnification of this moment.

Non-Euclidean secrets.
The doors are wide open.
Dead whales always dreaming.

Please, don't wake up.
Please, don't wake up.
Please, don't wake up.