Nautilus

If the universe birthed the nautilus,

called it perfect,

and tried to mirror it everywhere,

the math got corrupted in me.

I am a fetus,

hunch-backed shrimp critter

with a brand new heartbeat.

Half-bird, half-fish,

or some other archaic combination.

Trillions have come before me,

maybe as many after.

I never asked for this.

I am a curve,

pubescent at eight years old,

ready for breeding by ten.

Bloody cloth, red sheet,

plastic wrap, folded note.

Curled into myself in pain and shame.

Hard nipples, erect clit,

a walking feast in the shape of a pear.

I never asked for this.

I am a spiral,

my thoughts disappearing into a void of outcomes I should not name.

Rule of threes:

there are only so many chances in this composition.

The golden ratio, tarnished like ash in my mouth.

The floor, my best-kept secret.

Spinning into void because to feel is death.

Spinning into void.

I never asked for this.