Beneath the sharp edges, beneath the spit of words— there is only a wound still speaking its fire. Anger is a mask for the place that once reached out and was not met. You strike, yet the silence behind each blow does not strike back. ...
Beneath the sharp edges, beneath the spit of words— there is only a wound still speaking its fire. Anger is a mask for the place that once reached out and was not met. You strike, yet the silence behind each blow does not strike back. ...
What festers in speech dissolves in stillness. What hardens in rage softens in seeing. And there— beyond the noise— the field waits, unmoved, already whole.