Harbored within a teardrop-shaped womb,
my limbs stirring, straining with the thrust of blood,
I begin to unfurl with the throes of rebirth.
I uncoil like a caterpillar
in my cage of glass,
its walls still and skeletal,
delicately veined,
the air thick with lithium,
awaiting the full-throated fear of flight.
I howl—
the sound shatters the shell,
showering me
in broken iridescent teeth,
puncturing me,
the splendor of an open wound,
exposed.
At last the world around me
is no longer translucent,
unclouded by a partition of glass—
a sight so strong it blinds me.
I cling to the shards of my cage:
all that remains of what is familiar—
cowering, a butterfly unprepared for flight,
praying for a reprieve, until
the blood curtains my eyes and
I dip into black, awakening an eon later
to find myself cradled in a new cage,
lulled into the dreamless sleep of the blind.
