I had not thought my face would ever seek the sanctuary of my hands, but there it was, not bowed in grief, not merely mourning the life unlived, the love deferred by fear, but wrecked by something else: the animal heat of language gone rancid, the static hiss of what I said when the body was full and the soul was not watching.
I remembered, yes, remembered that there was once a chance for tenderness to grow untainted, if only I had spoken with less theatre, more skin.
And now, this morning, the carcass of words I do not recall releasing lies curled in green bubbles, sweat-slicked commands, the syntax of a stranger panting in my name.
I read them once, and again, then never.
There is a violence in revision. There is no such thing as un-saying.
And so, palms; these awkward altars receive my penitent skull, not to hide but to listen to what silence might have said had I let it speak first.