Galaxy. Pixabay.com

Becoming

It hurts to become — 
to fill a newborn space.
I shift into the expansion
but part of me stays in this place,
where I know every corner, texture, and shape

Why does growth fragment me
if it should make me whole?
It spreads me thin like atmosphere,
too amorphous for any mold.

Where do I fit and why does it hurt so much
to be?
Maybe I am the container, 
and the universe is in me.

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