You could silence me
with a look, or with
the lack of one.
Either way
I did not exist;
seen through as if
a ghost.
It hurts to become
a solid thing in
this world.
To birth yourself
and know the pains
of such strange labour.
To appear slowly to
yourself, emerging
from the mists of
wintered past.
I bump into myself
each day, and apologise
until I remember-this is me.
This stranger I must
welcome in, and offer
some refreshment.
And listen to politely,
and hope one day
to love.