rats are digging holes in the garden. you press your ears against the ancient earth, hating the silence of growing up.
there’s sand in your eyes, but you don’t remember the dreams anymore. mother asks if there’s anything wrong and suddenly you realize what words are for.
the autumn nights are longer now, and the rats have dragged the tooth fairy into their dark home. you wait, at the edge of a dying world, missing the sounds that spoke in silence.
alphabets are slowly starting to make sense. soon you fear, they’ll escape their colourful prisons and build new nests in your mind.
the rats are digging deeper holes and sunlight through the mist is beautiful and terrible at the same time. love splinters at the edges.
the alphabet army is digging deeper holes in your mind, sterilizing childhood with strange sentences.
language is a virus; the words, parasites feeding off the images and the scents and the secrets that made your heart. your imaginary friends are the first to go.
the tooth fairy dies in a broken dream, her wings dissolving into moonshine and her story eaten up by rats. words eat you now, running helter-skelter within your mind, a colony of termites withering you down.
the teeth are the first to fall. mother thinks there’s nothing wrong because that’s what you told her. lying’s first thing the language of words teaches you.
you bury your teeth with the tooth fairy, beneath handfuls of dust and dirt, in the holes the rats dig at night. you cover them with more earth, more silence.
at night, you can almost hear them, desperately trying to claw their way out. you wanted to die with them but
you are growing into something you don’t have the words for, yet.
Archita Mittra is a wordsmith and visual artist with a love for all things vintage and darkly fantastical. She occasionally practises as a tarot card reader.