Face pale like the waning
embers of our last December
suddenly I feel how cold the winter
really was without your patient hand
ripe with hot, sanguine blood
warming my palm like a delicate egg
on the cusp of hatching into someone unafraid
of you or me or the dissapointed
last words of my mother that ate me up
like maggots on a carcass but
I’m not even dead.
I’ve barely been born