Each morning, I feed myself
to the machine—white hours,
the fluorescent hum of must.

My head and hands do the work
my heart never signed for,
like an obedient animal,
filling in the forms of survival.

Yet somewhere under the floorboards
of my life a root grows in the dark,
insisting, and I think:
this is not my life, only its rent,
and meaning waits like freshly baked
bread cooling on a windowsill—
warm, unreasonably good,
and I can see it, smell it,
mine when I turn towards it with courage,
the small ferocious yes beneath the no.

 

31/7/2026