the ocean.

It is forever running like a round river

as we move deeper and deeper

into the womb. You will combust

into thin particles of dust,

your bones cracking with pressure

your lungs folding over like plastic: ripped.


It will unravel, slowly, achingly,

catching your fibers in its teeth

as it opens you up once again, pulling

harder. It hurts now,

the pull threatens your core and asks you

“What will you be once there’s nothing left to be?”

And what you shall answer

I don’t particularly care.


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