Liberation

We'll eat the sun our skins shades of thunder hair tangled like violent joy fangs red given we bit our tongues and the only language we now speak is blood

The lock was never the problem. The problem was the door believing in itself. I walked through the wall instead, soft as a rumor, certain as salt. Behind me: the small god of permission, weeping into his ledger. Ahead: a field where my name had already forgotten me, where the horses ran without anyone watching.