We inherit fever, not names, and move
like creatures invented from the same
wounds, our bodies struck bright and
feral beneath blind stars. Dark and
bare, we build altars from our own heat,
tongues unraveling the lust of chains.
We worship the undoing and the body
unsewing itself thread by thread until
we fray like saints stripped of bone.

We are all pulse and hunger, radiant and
collapsing we open doors we were never
meant to close, each movement a prayer
that aches and outlives the night. Nothing
is soft. We inherit survival, remember
light that touches skin: we rise, we burn.