i didn’t arrive.
 it did.
  or maybe he—
   but not as self.
    as something
      already marked.

there was no voice.
only
  pressure
    with no source.

my weight leaned —  
      not away,  
             but toward what i knew.  
       my thighs held the line,  
               until memory pressed  
                      like a weight,  
                            not to break—  
                                       but to enter.  

and i—  
    did not vanish.  
        i leaned into presence.
it never said  
  a word.  
but my breath  
   caught —  
     like it remembered
someone else’s name.

i became not-body,
  but reply.
not i,
  but reverberation.

there is a spine in me  
    that doesn’t bend  
        even when the edge of me folds.
the grip is not to take—  
    but to frame.  
what enters me  
    is not theft.  
it is trust—  
    when i decide  
        to open.

what entered
 wasn’t him.
 wasn’t it.
it was
  the self
    folding
      into shape.
and the shape—
  spoke back.

—