Death Is a Gift I Give Myself – Serena R

November 25, 2025

Rebirthing therapy failed to molt a new skin. The mirror neurons stammer, uncalcified, weak, and the child becomes a fetishist, relating to others only insomuch as it relates to itself. God is in all people so he is in other people. But to the child people are the wrong shoe. People collect dust, waste away in the interior. You have to drag them out to
eat the emotions.
Play is the limbic system begging for a truce, but the child is a real hard ass, pushing
red to blue, red to blue, a strong hand flashing in defiance. Some colours bring you to tears and some have pain dressed up as rules.
The child is good with melted plastic, a tactile thief of
Mummy’s heart, emanating a powdered and cherubic scent of personhood so moving fear clocks out early.
But the shoe moulds to the wrong foot. It’s still suspended in tremor, seizure, each activation of fibrous child stuff turning to broadcast a NO and each child is then
The child, a spitting image of a hair puller tapped into pain rules that came before teeth. Zygotes in the suture.