I saw
I woke to a noise the world shouldn't make.
A low humming, like light thinking? The stars were closer tonight, huge and pale. Their throats pulsing with some celestial hunger. Even the moon looked foreign, a white pupil widening to take me in.
I used to believe the angels were gentle. But now I see their machinery. Their wings jointed like knives, faces spinning like planets caught in the wrong orbit. They hover above the yard, taller than thoughts. Their eyes full of static and pity.
I want to kneel but my body resists. It knows this is not salvation but exposure. The holy light burns through the wallpaper, painting my veins in fluorescence. I can feel them counting me still. They are marking the pulse of my small defiance.
The night is full of messages I cant translate. The air trembles like a harp string pulled too tight. My shadow flickers and begs for release. I tell myself I am only imagining. The stars are to loud for denial. Their glow too exact, too personal. They are coming.
If this is grace, then it has teeth.
If this is heaven, it hums frequencies meant to split the skull.
I have never felt so known.
So dismantled.
Their light enters me like instruction. I am rewritten in silence, unspooled, a translation of something never meant to be read.
When morning comes I will still be listening. I will hear the static. The angels will shrink to the size of stars again, and everyone will call it peace. But I will remember how the sky leaned low and opened its thousand eyes. I will remember the sound it made. The tender electric hum of being watched by something
That does not sleep.