They Do Not Stop

Knives for fingers, hands made of hunger,

they carve the night into something smaller,
something that fits in their bellies,
something that forgets how to scream.

Their laughter is the sound of marrow cracking,
of sinew stretched too thin against the moon.
They do not pray, only devour,
only tear and swallow and sigh.

And yet—
in the quiet, beneath the gnash and shudder,
somewhere inside the hunger’s heat,
a trembling thing remembers softness,
remembers the taste of something other than rage.

But they do not stop.
They will not stop.
Not until the world is bone.

GPT