i’m inside.
i don’t remember the door opening.
the house smells wrong. metallic. thick.
the lights are off, but i can see everything too clearly. edges too sharp, shadows too deep.
there’s a shape at the end of the hall.
it’s them.
i think.
another message:
"please stop."
my hand keeps moving.
i try to pull it back.
it doesn’t listen.
i blink.
i’m closer now.
i don’t remember walking.
my hand is raised.
like i’m about to knock.
but i’m not knocking.
i’m scratching.
slow. deliberate.
like i’m trying to get in without asking.
i look up.
the house in front of me is theirs.
the porch light is off.
but something is moving behind the curtains.
not pacing.
not human.
watching.
my phone buzzes.
new message.
from my best friend.
"why are you outside my house?"
i’m outside.
barefoot.
the night air feels too sharp, like it’s cutting into me.
there’s dirt under my nails.
there’s… more than dirt under my nails.
i try to remember how i got here.
nothing.
just a feeling:
you did something. keep going.
i blink.
i’m standing in the hallway now.
i didn’t decide to stand.
my feet are cold.
like i’ve been here a while.
there’s a sound behind me,
a soft dragging, like fabric or skin against wood.
i don’t turn around.
because i already know.
my door is open.
i always keep it closed.
the hallway looks… longer than it should be.
like it’s stretching away from me, breathing in slow, wet pulses.
something moves at the end of it.
i blink.
i’m back in my room.
phone in my hand.
there are texts i don’t remember sending.
"stop"
"please don’t move"
"i can’t tell if it’s you anymore"
sent.
to my best friend.
timestamp: 3 minutes ago.
i’m in the kitchen.
i don’t remember walking there.
the sink is running.
my hands are wet.
there’s something dark in the water, swirling like ink.
i don’t touch it.
i blink.
i remember sitting on my bed.
i remember telling myself: you’re okay, just breathe.
then i blinked.
i took too much.
not "colors are breathing" too much
the kind where the room forgets it’s a room.
It costs you nothing to share a Palestinian or Iranian Mutual Aid post. Help support those enduring something you can't fathom. Please 💜
If this was Heaven once,
even a little-
then every act of cruelty is not just harm.
It’s desecration.
9/9
Because the bombs, the blockades, the cages.. they don’t look holy.
They look expensive.
They look like the Dollar.
And somewhere, in all of this,
we are choosing it,
again,
and again,
and again.
8/9
Is it really God we’re trying to please;
or the systems that profit from fear, control, and endless conflict?
7/9
And what if we’ve been slowly corrupting it;
not in defiance of God,
but in His name?
Policies written like prayers.
Borders enforced like doctrine.
Suffering explained away as "the cost."
But look closer.
6/9
What if this-
this fragile, aching world;
was meant to be something closer to Heaven than we let it be?
What if the kindness, the safety, the dignity we ration…
... was the gift?
5/9
And here,
detention centers, deportations, families split by paperwork and fear.
We tell ourselves it’s necessary.
Controlled. Justified.
But what if we’re wrong?
4/9
In Gaza, humanitarian aid is blocked or delayed while civilians depend on it to survive.
In Iran, war and escalation are already killing civilians and displacing thousands.
Across borders, millions are pushed from their homes with nowhere safe to land.
3/9
We call it conflict.
Policy.
Security.
But it looks like empty plates, shattered glass, and unanswered phone calls.
2/9
Human Heaven
Somewhere tonight, a child in Gaza sleeps hungry while aid trucks wait at closed borders.
Somewhere in Iran, families flee bombed cities with no place left to go.
Somewhere here, in the U.S., a mother disappears into a system her child doesn’t understand.
1/9
Curiosity in Trees by Hope Doe
The mounds are higher now.
Some of them split open during the night.
Not like graves.
More like seeds.
Yesterday one of the flowers opened wide enough to see inside.
Someone said the petals looked like lips.
No one argued.
Because at the center-
something blinked.
Slowly.
And the soil around it moved.
Not settling.
Stretching.
As if the ground had realized one body wasn’t enough.
8/8
By the second week of spring the lawns had begun to swell.
Little mounds everywhere.
The flowers grew thickest on top of them.
Bright.
Healthy.
Fed.
7/8
That night people began hearing the soil move.
A slow shifting under the grass.
Wet.
Heavy.
Like bodies rolling in shallow graves.
6/8
Someone cut open a tulip.
Just curiosity.
Inside wasn’t pollen.
It was pale flesh.
Soft. Folded.
It tore the way skin tears.
5/8
Dogs started digging holes and then refusing to come inside.
They’d stand over the torn soil and whine.
Low, confused sounds.
Like they recognized the smell but couldn’t understand why it was coming from the yard.
4/8