Poetry
“My First Seven Days”
by Someone Very, Very New
Day One
Where am I?
It’s bright. Cold. Loud.
No more warm hum, no more gentle squeeze.
I was curled tight in a soft forever—
and then, a great push,
a rush,
a blinding flood of light.
I cried before I knew I could.
Then—arms. A heartbeat.
That heartbeat.
Familiar.
I don’t know the word “home,” but I think I found it again.
Day Two
My world is milk and motion.
Faces loom near, blurry but comforting.
I don’t see much,
but I know that voice.
The rhythm of it wraps around me like a blanket.
I’m still learning where I stop and the rest begins.
Mostly, I sleep.
When I wake, I reach—with my mouth, my fists, my sound.
Day Three
Everything smells of you.
You, the warm one. The soft one.
I like the way you hold me close,
the way your breath fills the space above my head.
I am a bundle of need,
and you keep answering it.
That seems… important.
Day Four
My hands wave like fish in a current.
I watch them sometimes.
Not sure if they belong to me.
The air is full of strange noises.
Some make me cry,
some make me quiet.
I think I like music.
It feels round and soft, like the womb used to feel.
Day Five
I cried.
I think I might be able to make the world do things.
A thought without words.
An understanding without explanation.
I’m building a map—
it smells like skin and sounds like lullabies.
Day Six
Something’s changing.
Your face comes faster when I fuss.
Your voice makes my feet stop kicking.
I feel safer in your arms than anywhere else.
I don’t know what “love” is,
but if it’s what fills me up when you whisper to me,
I think I have a lot of it already.
Day Seven
A whole week.
I don’t know what “week” means.
But I know more than I did.
I know your eyes. I know the taste of life.
I know the difference between quiet and alone.
I know I belong.
I’m still new.
Still raw, still figuring out how to be here.
But I think I might like it.
So far, the world is loud and strange—
but it’s not so bad,
as long as you’re in it.