i didn’t name it.
 it arrived.

not as pain.
not as form.
but—
 as
  unfolding.

the body
 didn’t respond.
it recognized
 a grammar
  older than voice.

i was not afraid.
but fear
 took shape
  inside my knees.

i let it—
 not to resist,
 but to witness.

knowing
 is always
  too late.

i stood—
 not as ending,
 but as
  not knowing
   how
   to stay
    without form.

sometimes,
 you walk through
  your own skin
   like it’s someone else’s hallway.

and the floor—
 doesn’t explain
  what it holds.

—