The Fatal Position

I crawled back into my mother’s womb.
It stank of me over seventeen years ago,
And I hate nostalgia.

I sewed myself inside and watched the seasons advance.
I lost all my photo albums in a fire last year.

Anything to extend the denial of me being absolutely fucked.
I shredded every receipt,
Any paper that might have confirmed my existence,
I swallow and shit out.
I live for/in the moment;
Remain blind to narratives,
Time’s arrow is too blunt for my sheer nerves.
I’m treading water until I drown.
Good night sweetheart.
See you when you’re mourning.
Love conquers all, even, eventually, life.
If I return to the web of my genesis,
I won’t feel a thing.
A refreshing change.

I’m not scared.
Just bored.

Life, tentative as an unmarked leaf of paper,
Has left with my much-coveted virginity;
Both without my consent.

If I store myself in a sturdy box, like a hypothetical cat,
Perhaps I’ll live forever.

“Mortality Box: Please don’t open.
Potential Death inside. Sincerely, Yours.”

Nick Hudson.