一、未生之问
我未曾点头，
便已被写入时间的地图。
父亲的愿望，
母亲的空虚，
一场不慎的合欢，
我，被按下“生成”。
谁为我签下了这场存在的契约？
谁替我承担了“成为人”的代价？
在子宫的黑夜里，
我已听见世界喘息的沉重。
二、婴啼之债
我不会说话，
便已向世界讨债。
每一声啼哭，都是一纸通牒：
给我奶水、温暖与时间，
否则我死给你看。
母亲把头埋进枕头，
父亲走向更远的夜班，
外婆的手在发抖，
却依然一遍遍哄我入梦。
啼哭，是最初的勒索。
生存，本就是一场不择手段的求爱。
三、童年的锋刃
我捏死一只蚂蚁，
扯坏别人的风筝，
我说“我们不跟她玩”，
她在厕所里哭到放学。
老师说：“他只是个孩子。”
孩子说：“我不是坏人。”
小恶无需动机，
残忍往往来自一双还不会系鞋带的手。
四、青春的裂缝
我恨一切试图教我如何活的人，
也恨这个不肯让我好好做梦的世界。
我把爱扔给不爱我的人，
把话语留给键盘。
成长不是拔节，
是撕裂。
是皮肤下那道
永远不再愈合的缝隙。
五、成人的代价
我穿西装，说谎，
掩饰慌张，计算情绪。
我夺得了升职，也失去了朋友。
我赢下一场谈判，却失掉睡眠。
父母说：“你出息了。”
孩子说：“你太忙了。”
每一次成功，
都踩着某人的落败。
而失败，连影子都没人记得。
六、中年的沉默
我开始沉默，
不是不痛，
是没时间痛。
要还贷款，要签字，要出差，要讲道理。
有时看着镜子里的人，
我也想问他一句：
“你是谁？”
可我怕，他也答不上来。
有一种崩塌，是静音的；
有一种死亡，叫日复一日地活着。
七、老年的退场
我讲的故事没人听了，
我拿药的手在抖，
儿子说：“你别乱跑。”
护士说：“您再等等。”
我曾是所有人的世界，
现在是社会的负担。
我缓慢，却清醒。
知道这个舞台，已经不属于我了。
八、归零之后
火化炉打开，
我是最后一次热烈。
我的名字，归于灰烬；
我的爱恨，归于寂静；
我的遗体，也成为污染的指标之一。
我努力过，我挣扎过，
我存在过吗？
没有掌声，
没有谢幕，
只有一缕烟，
向上，也向下。
尾声：给仍在路上的你
你问：既然终点皆空，何必苦行？
我说：
既然注定燃烧，
那就燃出光。
既然无法完美，
那便温柔。
愿你在这场不可避免的旅途里，
至少——
在人间，做过一次灯塔。
I. The Question of the Unborn
I never nodded,
yet I was inscribed on the map of time.
My father’s desire,
my mother’s emptiness,
a careless night of union—
and I was pressed into “generation.”
Who signed the contract of my existence?
Who paid the price for me to become human?
In the black night of the womb,
I already heard the world’s labored breath.
II. The Debt of a Crying Infant
I could not speak,
yet I was already collecting debts from the world.
Every wail was a written ultimatum:
Give me milk, warmth, and time—
or I’ll die right here for you to see.
My mother buried her head in the pillow,
my father walked into a deeper night shift,
my grandmother’s hands trembled,
yet still rocked me to sleep again and again.
Crying is the first form of blackmail.
To survive is to love without mercy.
III. The Blade of Childhood
I crushed an ant,
tore someone’s kite,
said, “We’re not playing with her,”
while she wept in the bathroom till the bell rang.
The teacher said, “He’s just a child.”
The child said, “I’m not a bad person.”
Small evils need no reason—
cruelty often comes from hands
still learning to tie shoelaces.
IV. The Fracture of Youth
I hated everyone who tried to teach me how to live.
I hated the world that wouldn’t let me dream in peace.
I gave love to those who didn’t want it,
left my words for the keyboard.
Growing up isn’t blossoming—
it’s tearing apart.
It’s that fissure beneath the skin
that never heals again.
V. The Price of Adulthood
I wore a suit, told lies,
masked my panic, calculated emotion.
I got promoted—and lost my friends.
I won a negotiation—and lost my sleep.
My parents said, “You’ve made it.”
My child said, “You’re always busy.”
Every success
stood on someone else’s defeat.
And failure?
No one even remembers its shadow.
VI. The Silence of Middle Age
I began to go silent—
not because I didn’t hurt,
but because there was no time to hurt.
There were loans to repay, forms to sign,
trips to take, logic to explain.
Sometimes I stared at the man in the mirror
and wanted to ask:
“Who are you?”
But I was afraid
he wouldn’t know either.
There is a kind of collapse that’s muted;
a kind of death that is called living, day after day.
VII. The Exit of Old Age
No one listens to my stories anymore.
My hand shakes as I fetch my medicine.
My son says, “Don’t wander off.”
The nurse says, “Please wait a little longer.”
I was once the center of everyone’s world,
and now I’m society’s burden.
I am slow, but clear-headed.
I know this stage
no longer belongs to me.
VIII. After Zero
The cremator opens,
and I burn bright for one last time.
My name turns to ash,
my love and rage turn to silence,
my corpse becomes another line in the pollution report.
I tried. I struggled.
But did I exist?
No applause,
no curtain call—
just a wisp of smoke,
rising upward… and downward.
Epilogue: To You Still Walking
You ask:
If the end is emptiness, why endure the pain?
I say:
If we’re fated to burn,
then let’s burn bright.
If we cannot be perfect,
let us be kind.
May you, on this unavoidable journey,
at least—
be a lighthouse, once,
for someone,
in this world.