They fed you ghosts, called it breakfast.
You swallowed bone-dust with your milk,
felt it settle in the gaps of your ribs,
grinding, grinding, grinding—
but they said: grow.

Outside, the trees were taller than time,
but inside, the walls learned your name.
Soft hands became knives.
Small mouths learned silence.
The mirrors cracked, but nobody asked why.

The lullabies were hunger songs,
and the bedtime stories always ended with:
Run, little rabbit. Run.