The old wound pulls one way and the untamed self lunges the other, and the rope between them burns crosswise across your palms. Chiron, the centaur dragging its unhealed arrow, crosses Lilith, the Black Moon at the lunar apogee, the exiled self that bites at any leash, at a hard right angle. The part that wants tending and the part that wants to bolt keep grinding against each other in the same chest. You know this struggle in your body: bleeding while snarling, one hand soothing the hurt, the other tearing loose. That clash carves a fierceness no settled person carries, an edge stacked brick by brick against exactly this strain.