The old sore place and the face you lead with land on the same degree of the horizon. Chiron, the limping centaur whose injury turned into its teaching, never a planet with weight, sits right on the mask you wear to greet the world, so the scar reaches the door before your name does. Strangers read something tender and already-cut in how you show up, and it disarms them. They lean toward your rough edges where a smooth surface would have kept them polite and far. You meet everyone from the exact spot you were once wounded, which is your strange gift and your snare both. The snare: letting the ache become the entire hello, until you only ever turn up as the one still smarting.