The Creative

this is not a playground anymore.

you, aged enough to see claws

grow from the arms you once ran to,

you, brave enough to stay

when they need something to hold

they hold you

you are soft, you see

you have chosen to sleep

amongst paper bruises and needles lines

though life held out his veiny palm

offered you human heart;

thick and green and pulsating with blood

and blood

and blood.

Darling, you have made your bed.

now run from it.