Tell me you don’t matter to a universe that conspired to give you such a tongue, such rhythm or rhythm-less hips, such opposable thumbs. Give thanks or go home a waste of spark. Speak, or let the maker take back your throat. March, or let the maker rescind your feet. Dream, or let your god destroy your good.

Infertile mind, this is your warning, this is your birth-rite; do not let this universe regret you.


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