The Quiet Coffin

The devil doesn’t come with pain,

he comes with playlists, wine nights,

scrolls until 2 a.m.

and laughter that doesn’t reach the chest.

Not the peace that God breathes in,

but the kind bought in therapy scripts,

vacations that blur,

and a hand to hold until the silence returns.

He whispers comfort

through crowded rooms,

through one more drink,

through another “I’m fine.”

In mirrors that flatter,

in filters that hide,

in bodies reshaped

to cover what’s hollow inside.

In friends who say “you deserve this,”

while your soul still cries for more,

in lovers who are placeholders

you mistake for open doors.

But comfort is a coffin,

and most lie down

so still,

they never rise again.