a mother’s body gradually becomes a resource for the child
My skin — a strong perimeter, a sealed contour.
My voice — a solo part in an empty hall.
Steps are light — I own every millimeter of space.
I breathe evenly — the air belongs only to my lungs.
My sleep — a monolith, deep water without a single splash.
My s kin — thins, lets through another’s | vibration.
My voice — seeks a frequency to catch another’s | pulse.
Ste ps grow heavier — I carry within me an added | mass.
I breathe | in two rhythms that falter into a shared spasm.
My sleep — a borrowed | scrap between inhale and demand.
S k i n — a stretched map of another’s | routes.
V o i c e — fades to a whisper, becoming | the background for a scream.
S t e p s — die out, henceforth I am only | a motionless support.
Br eathing — cut in half, I am left with | only the exhale.
S l e e p — scattered into shards | of another’s restlessness.
( ) — a territory of displacement, where what is mine becomes | shared.
( ) — an echo of a voice that obediently plays along | in thirds.
( ) — a weight that grew into the spine and became | a new skeleton.
( ) — oxygen, given to the last drop into | a tiny throat.
( ) — vigilance instead of rest, burning away | the former ‘I.’
Your sk i n — my new perimeter and contour.
Your voice — the dominant note filling every crack.
Your weight — the only reality of my geography.
Your breathing — the mechanism moving my ribs.
Your sleep — from now on the only form of my being.