When it comes to the world,
I'm a preterm baby—
I know nothing
of tales, adventures,
treachery, or wisdom.
I watch
with hooded, glazed eyes
that only understand
fragments—
splinters
of ideas.
So when I got a glimpse,
it wasn’t something
a cradle-bound soul
could ever decipher.
It's the justification of just—
It’s never just a papercut.
And it wouldn’t be.
It’s never I’m fine.
And it wouldn’t be.
My baby self
is allowed to throw a fit.
I think
every other version
should too.
But I’m only a preterm.
What do I know?
