The womb convulses, spitting me forth—a clot of breath. Light carves itself into my skull. Already, the body is a wound.

I lurch toward meaning, but time gnaws at the marrow. The mirror refuses me. Language drips, cooling into names I do not recognize.

Love lingers but never sinks in. The tongue, a rusted hinge. The hands, outstretched, grasp absences. They call this aging, but it feels like erosion.

Flesh crumbles into concept. Time forgets. A door swings open in the dark—
or was I never here at all?