I am emerging, from a terrible pain of screams, sweat and noise that I am barely concious of. I cannot see; though I have eye, I have no desire to open them. And my ears shrivel with the crescendo of confused sounds that greet them like fire.

Like the rose's thorns dragged across the palm of a hand.

I have emerged through water, from one abyss into the clutches of another. The wet walls that surrounded me now fill me with a tormetning chill. My stiff limbs draw up against my chest, and my throat begins to screech without the aid of my nerves.

From this abyss,
I have no name.

I have no aspirations, no desires. I am awake and drowning within my own sounds, but I am empty. My eyes glisten like the milky sky at twilight beneath their borders, but will they turn to hues of ice, emerald, or amber? I am incomplete in my beginning. My origin has given me a shadow; I can feel pain. I can even create dialogue, though it makes sense only to myself.

I am a flower,
Screaming.

There is a shudder of skin around me, surrounding. How are these hands to create? The affliction of gender is shaping me, but it is merely a drop against a much greater canvas. I do not yet bear a personality, wear a name, though thoughts and fears already exist in my spiralling genes, restless against my ribs. The DNA of a philiosopher, an artist, or a labourer? A doctor, or a mother?

What will emerge,
And what shall be left in the womb?