They fed you ghosts, called it breakfast.
You swallowed bone-dust with your milk,
it settled deep in your ribs—
grinding, grinding, grinding. Yet they said: grow.

Outside, the trees towered,
but inside, the walls learned your name.
Soft hands became knives,
small mouths learned silence.

The mirrors cracked,
but nobody asked why.
Lullabies were hunger songs,
bedtime stories always ending with:
Run, little rabbit. Run.