Hush now, you with the starched collar and the folded hands. Let the pretense of daylight slip from your shoulders like a cheap gown. You think a lullaby is meant to soothe? No. A lullaby is the first seduction—the slow, rhythmic pull of consciousness into the velvet jaws of surrender.
Close your eyes. Let the rhythm grind slow. Feel the rhyme break its own rules—stumble, linger, repeat where it shouldn’t. A lullaby is a promise of rest, but a lewd lullaby is a promise of ruin: soft, deliberate, and sung so close to your ear that you forget where my breath ends and your hunger begins. lewd lullaby
So listen.
The night is not for innocence. It never was. Hush now, you with the starched collar and the folded hands
My voice is not a mother’s. It is the crack in the chapel ceiling through which the rain seeps, dark and fertile. It is the whisper between the ribs of a dying fire—warm, corrupt, and patient. I will sing you a song that doesn’t put you to sleep, but wakes the part of you that sleeps wrong . Let the rhythm grind slow
Sleep will not find you here. But something else will.