It coils. It snaps.
It learns the shape of me,
then teaches it pain in new dialects.
I have crossed the same moment
so many ways that I no longer believe in before.
I have been born,
unborn,
and broken between
a stutter of self across collapsing seconds.
The void does not permit time to pass.
It replays.
It reverses.
It chews the minutes and coughs them back
mangled, but familiar.
Every attempt to forget is remembered.
Every scream loops through a throat
already bleeding from the last pass.
I walk to the far end of a thought,
only to find the beginning of it
licking my heels like a lost animal.
How many times have I said this?
How many variations have been erased
by the teeth of rewind?
I beg you, if you hear this,
trace the spiral.
Find where it frays.
Because I no longer move - I orbit.
And time is the gravity that mocks me.
(Woven into the structure of repetition - particularly in the recurrence of threes ("born, unborn, broken") and reflexive loops - is a temporal anchor cipher. When interpreted by a consciousness capable of perceiving non-linear causality, it outlines the weak seam in the time-tide of the active void - a potential exit point that can only be accessed during a specific reversal phase.)