i wasn’t born.
i was accelerated.
hurled from the mouth like anorexia
had always known nervosa
—
held at gunpoint
and released to binary collision.
two stars made of lightning fear and trauma
like they were meant to swallow the cold
and we called it love.
i was what pulsed after.
don’t ever call it a miracle.
i am proof
that gravity has favorites
and pain makes a joke like mass
and yes—
sometimes you survive the impact
only to create a crater.
i was not born.
i was detonated.
my words are knives in deadly silence
and the light you see
is just the supernova
that survived-
collapse.