Trigger Warning
They don’t smile when flowers grow,
but when the stem is snapped in two—
that’s when their eyes begin to glow,
a spark that flares on someone’s bruise.
They clap for stumbles, lean in close
to catch the sound of breaking glass,
collect the fragments like a boast,
polish their pride with every crack.
You’ll see it in the way they pause
when tears are spilled but not their own,
how gently they applaud your loss,
then offer you a blade to hone.
Their laughter? Soft, but never kind—
a rustle in the dark, a hook.
They feed on what you leave behind:
the pieces they convinced you to overlook.