Your need to be seen reaches for the approved image, and the part that refuses to be anyone's acceptable version yanks the other way, the two set at ninety degrees and wearing each other down. The Sun and Lilith sit square: the self that wants recognition and the core you would not house-train keep colliding. You have paid for polishing a likeable face while the exiled self refused to fit inside it, for stepping into the light and then bristling at how it asked you to behave. The Black Moon is no asteroid passing through, it is the tension the identity is hammered out against. That grip carves a selfhood with no costume on it, one shaped by being crossed by its own untamed core.