I didn't want it.
I didn't decide it. I didn't call. I didn't open my mouth. Even my lips remained closed, tense in an inertia without prayer, without invitation, as if my whole body, from the belly to the teeth, knew that any movement would already be too much.
And yet… it came out.
And in that "it came out," there was already a crack. Because nothing comes out of a body without first carving a path. There had been a preparation, perhaps ancient, perhaps even foreign to my own story — a long, silent work of shaping, a mineral waiting, as if my flesh had been slowly molded for this sole purpose: to one day emit what would never belong to me.
