The cut
that carves deep into the flesh,
down into the core—
there’s nothing quite like it.
Like a primordial slice
at the root of everything.
Standing outside yourself,
watching your body perform 
the ritual of togetherness, but not belonging.
Hearing your voice strike false chords
while trying to fit into a picture
you’re not a part of it.
You’re always realizing just a little too late—
Out-of-frame, mid-flash and mid-sentence— 
that you’re meant to be somewhere else.
Closer to yourself,
of yourself—
simply 
yourself.
A meaning of kin too narrow
to conceive of anything more,
you’d never know it.
You were born drowning; 
you had to learn many times over 
that you weren’t born to drown. 
Beneath the waves,
crushed by the detritus,
it all seems the same:
too normal not to breathe.
You could go on existing in a space 
where time is shapeless, 
yet so very palpable.
You’d watch yourself countless times,
hear your spirit split from your words,
and feel your skin heavier than home.
You wouldn’t live until you finally believed
what your body has long already known.
What it means
to not inhabit pain
and call it pleasure, 
or to confuse habit with affection.
To be enough inside.
The difference—
it’s unmistakable and profound.
Knowing love isn’t eviscerating;
it repairs and expands. 
Each moment,
like breathing for the first time—
the joy at the heart 
of actual connection.