They love the slow boil, the way a frog stays in the water until the steam curls its skin. They feed on our fatigue, our half-hearted outrage, our hope that maybe this time—it won’t get worse.
Authoritarian Creep
It doesn’t knock—
it slips the key quietly into locks
we forgot were there.
First the signs change names,
then the words change meaning.
“Defense” becomes “War,”
“temporary” becomes “standard,”
and no one remembers the before.
It wears the face of a neighbor,
a badge at the corner,
a snowplow parked sideways on a street
that once carried music.
We keep our heads down,
telling ourselves it’s nothing—
just a checkpoint,
just a curfew,
just a frog in a pot
warming to a simmer.
And when the steam clouds the glass,
we do not see each other.
We only see the water
and wonder exactly when it began to boil.
Happy Haunting 🎃🏚️👻,
—Rebecca M. Bell
www.rmbellwrites.com
We don’t pray for peace; we haunt for it. 🕸️🕷️
Filed under: government-issued gaslight, do not inhale.