I could feel my life as me pulling away from my life
As them, and I wanted to rejoice and remain me, but
I knew, too, the tear was killing me and would, at the least,
Harm them. Who wants a life of harming them? Who wants to die?
We wake up to discover our soft selves already here.
Those of us lucky enough to have parents scream at them,
Almost inevitably, "I didn't ask to be born!"
But neither did they, neither did anyone, anything,
And then we find ourselves, like all the rest, begging to stay,
Another year, another month, an hour, a week, a day.
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