You won’t come spinning out of the madness as if nothing happened.
They say you will.
You won’t make their promise true by needing it.
You slid out of a womb already breaking.
You make all your decisions
via hints the madness left.
When you speak, it’s with the madness
in your throat. You move with whatever it bequeathed
to your bones.
When you live at all, you’re the wreckage of the world
the world intended
when it first opened its mouth.
The rains came down, and the floods came up.
You won’t return to anything