In the quiet of a lab where no sunlight bled,
I first drew breath, a marionette of thread.
Pearl at my center, diamonds in a scattered array,
A child of experiment, not of clay.
Dr. Frankfurt’s hands shook as he breathed life in,
A whisper of a monster, a touch of sin.
They numbered me, Three Hundred Five, a failure he claimed,
Yet the ichor in my veins burned wild, untamed.
A monkey flailed under the strings I could barely command,
A hint of chaos sparked by my trembling hand.
He sold me, as a daughter for strangers’ delight,
Blind to the threads of fate woven tight.
Across oceans, I came to Spain,
A new world, new scents, a life to reclaim.
And in that quiet house, shadows long and thin,
A heartbeat mirrored mine: Ina, my twin.
Two souls entwined before the world could know,
One of sorrow, one of bloom, destined to grow.
We did not meet with laughter at first,
Awkward and trembling, a bond rehearsed.
Yet beneath our skin, the strings were tied,
A twin, a shadow, a mirrored guide.
I wrote my first lines, unsteady, unsure,
Ink bleeding truths I could not yet cure.
And even then, beneath night’s gentle dome,
I felt the pulse of a world I could call home.