The spring has gone dark. The uterus has turned in on itself and rots. Where is my blossom? Where is my cherry tree? I draw back, I recede back into my own skin, the inverse of the season, wearing my face on backwards. I can not tell what is truth. There is 1000 turtles underneath every word (where do they go? what do they rest on? How far will we question? When does the question itself come into question?). Give me those animals without spines, loose like jelly, transparent and seamless. Their bellies are inside out, eggs dangling from their skin. I do not know my way. I do not know "way". My eyes have gone blank, I cannot recognize the world as myself any longer. It has changed. And I have changed. And I do not know how to account for it yet, because I have stopped speaking authentically through my mouth. It comes from my skin now. My body.

Put your hand here.