A chill slips through the gaps of my fingers, clinging thinly to the skin—the more I let go, the deeper it sinks. Death is a quiet curtain; life, a wordless intrusion. Both steal away the warmth of blood, leaving it suddenly cold. A cold wind creeps between bone and bone, and a silent pain begins to pulse. I do not need warmth—I want to sink into this cold, to be worn down by it.
After sinking completely, only one thing remains: blood, trembling once, red. When I touch death, the inside of my skin softly collapses; when I touch life, the shadow of my bones grows indistinct. That contradiction alone is proof that I am alive. In a place unseen, untouched by anyone, defenseless and soundless, I fall apart again and again.
Born in order to die, dying in order to be born—I am placed inside this meaningless mechanism. Even if skin fades, even if blood grows distant, even if bones themselves dissolve, coldness and silence persist as relics of the body. And still, I press my cheek against the world.
Poem by SAURA
