Asleep at the bottom of a rib cage spasmed shut, there is a seed. I came out of the womb with it clicking against my bones. It scratched love into my marrow, poked fear into the cartilage. It swam and swelled and pressed melancholic patterns against my eyes, it floated down and pulsed with my heart, echoing hopeful phrases in Morse code. It cut angst into my stomach before coming to its rest. But I feel the pod cracking open now, forcing my lungs to open. This seed is sprouted; I am, at last, awake. Let me be rooted.