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The Little People

The Little People are so interesting.

I have never seen them before.

I am watching them.

I am always watching them.

The hole in my cheek

bleeds a quick so soft and silvery.

We dig down again,

but we can’t breathe the air here.

The Little People can’t tell the difference.

They sing nonsense, they don’t understand.

I extend a gentle arm,

but the Little People gnaw my fingers cruelly.

I don’t retreat, my blood drives them insane.

I am watching them.

It is too hot down here.

We can’t hear our siblings scream.

The Others don’t watch the Little People like I do.

The Others can’t hear the Music.

We’re digging again.

We’re digging for cold.

The Others grow tired. I do not.

I like to watch the Little People kill each other.

I am bored with the Others.

I am starving.

The Others’ fingers are old and worn out,

Their hair is falling onto the ground.

I give my rations to the Little People.

They do not eat it. I do not eat it, either.

I think, for a moment, that perhaps we are dead.

Then, my hand catches and bleeds on a rock, and I remember.

The Little People tell me all sorts of secrets.

I cannot ever remember what they say.

The Others are digging.

I do not help them.

The Little People are so interesting.

I am always watching them.

The Others leave me here.

They are digging for cold.

The Little People make homes in my chest.

I cannot breathe the air here.

I am starving.

I hear the Music, and the Little People are dancing.

I dance, too.

The Others don’t remember my name,

but I don’t either, so I don’t mind.

I fall asleep,

though my very instincts know I should not.

When I wake, it will be somewhere else,

but now, I am with the Little People.