I was created, hands added their texture,

Hands moulded mine, words dove straight

Into my fabric, echoes that were not mine,

Voices, forlorn, ever-expanding, across my unborn

Skin, layer after layer, they sang to me, sang

Me to life, held me there, stewing, stretched

To the left, pulled to the right, squeezing

Into myself to stay close to my own heart.

Nowhere to hide, nowhere to resign,

I heard them, enter and develop,

Shades into my ears, a concoction of the past

A promise for the future, survival, I wonder whose,

From theirs, to hers, to mine, poking my body

With fingernails and stomachaches, holding

On to lives that are lived and gone, holding

On to a body unborn, mine, with their heartaches and chaos,

Their ambiguities and indecisiveness, neediness,

Everything they haven’t done,

They speak to my body and I cannot be alone

From the beginning, I have never been alone,

I am part of a choir that is etched into my flesh,

They all scream at me, wanting more and more,

Taking over, the dead invaded me within the womb

And as I was born, they were reborn too.

Photo by Maksim Goncharenok on Pexels.com

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