For 22-years, I made my world in her womb. There I lived. There I breathed. Sheltered and dreaming, I waited. Waited for the Life that would find me after birth. Afterbirth. A bloody, tangled mess. It pours out of you, and I follow. I flow through you, and into a space that is not my own. I follow because it is time.

It's time, but im not ready. Not ready to breath this air. So thick, it gets caught in my lungs- it steals my cries, replaces words with shallow inhales.

This is not my home.

I am not home.

But they tell me I am.