I fell into this world,
given birth by a void.
Womb-wrought,
I sat and stalled
on the periphery of time.
In all directions a silent space.
Grim leather doctor,
with gnarled hands and tawny skin,
you tear me like giblets from my sanctuary.
Slap me on the counter-top scale and
swaddle me in wax-paper.
Mark my status: alive and feeble.
Hand me over, choking on birth-matter.
Tall figures cast shadows on my form:
sinister giants who tower over the disinfected landscape like Titans.
My mind is a template,
my bones are gelatin.
A weak vessel. A compilation of empty echoes.
Eventually a nipple beckons.
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