It’s the smidge of humanity that remains.

I feel, in circles.

When you see the abuse reappear after all the years, after all of the hours of torment

The breath, the wave, the grasp, the tears

The reflection — the ghost — of self that remains.

Did you hear the call too? Was is hushed? A dull roar? A clawing, clambering desire to make magic with your tongue — create art with your body and shadows and light. The old fashioned way — the tales of our time — our myths — reprised.