By the pleasure of my conceiver I have been born,
and that birth by means of pain.
The pain remains,
continuing to usher me into life.
A bludgeon on my back that I might breathe
life that is fleeting and abounding,
retched and glorious,
depraved and redeemed,
barren and fertile,
foreign and drawn back into familiar.
Drawn back through death
into the life of my conceiver, Love.
