I was born with a splinter in my chest
and I took my first steps with
the stride of a fugitive. I was born
with a heart that beat stuttering syncopated time
as I flailed a faltering shamble-dance and
somehow fumbled out a symphony. I was
born with pores that were eyes that
would swallow the sun. I would stretch out
my arms and turn myself inward to hold
everything I could reach. I was born to
gasp and be breathless at the filigree
of crystal cobwebs spun between each
atom and moment of endless anything. I
was born to move like the blood
in the ancient veins of stones, and to sing
like the voice in the timeless throats of trees.
I was born during a rainstorm, so I was wrapped
in a too-tight coat of neutral color that I cannot
shed. Some have no coat. I was born
holding a broken compass that could
only point west-southwest. So I smashed it.
Now I have no compass.