Across the dark room the old wound faces the part of you that refused to be tamed, the two squared off at opposite walls. Chiron, the limping centaur whose hurt became its teaching, sits across the axis from Lilith, the Black Moon at the lunar apogee, the exiled self that will not come to heel. The ache that wants tending keeps staring down the wildness that wants no leash, and neither blinks. Some nights the hurt begs you to soften, some nights the refusal shows its teeth. You meet yourself whole only by keeping the scar and the snarl turned toward each other across that gap, instead of letting one shout the other into silence.