the mornings play a
hysterical game of
forgetting the night
and putting it back
together piece by piece,
thread after thread
so delicately by sundown.
the demons don't care
what the milkmen have to say.
they're so easily forgotten.
until they climb out of their
little houses.
they tug on the thread each visit,
unraveling.
they will swallow you whole.
the milkmen are waiting with the sun.
they great me with a smile and a sweet touch,
like sun rays on pale skin.
but the demons bring stars with them.
they grab my hand as cherry red drips
of my fingertips.