I was born to my centennial birthday.
I awoke in smears of my mother’s afterbirth
And the bleeding end of my umbilical cord
Tethering me to her like a kite.
The perfume of my impending death
Slips through my newborn veins.
I am eternally mortal;
My mortality warring with my matchstick pulse.
I learned to speak in old age
And at the turn of my millennium
I scribbled my autobiography in coloring books
With sunset tainted crayons.
My life is stretched across a fourth dimensional wire,
Extending from the dawn of time behind
To the collapse of the universe before.
I – limp and graceless – am skewered in the middle,
Neither young nor old,
Dead nor alive.