The old sore spot and the part of you that got sent away stand at one degree, two strays huddled under a single streetlamp. Chiron, the limping centaur whose hurt taught it everything, fuses with Lilith, the dark of the lunar apogee, the refused self shoved past the fence. The hurt and the exile burn as one fire. The thing they shamed you for and the thing that wounded you turn out to be the same raw edge. You bare your teeth and your scar in one motion. The trap is letting that fused heat become your only mouth, so every story you tell comes out as the wound and the banishment spoken in the same breath.