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.