I press the blade where thought begins, a silver seam along the skin of what I’ve worn as face and name. The membrane yields, no scream, no sin, only the hush of deeper light that always knew my hidden frame. And it clicks, the fault line sings, the world I built was never mine. So I walk the distortion line, calm incision, steady hand, through every fractured beam I climb to claim what’s always been mine. I break to see, I bend to stand, self-vivisection is my right. Fluid vision spills across the floor, reflections fold, the mirror opens inward. Old certainties dissolve like salt, I taste the dark that shaped the border between the mask and what endures, between the lie and what is altered. Recognition, cold and clean: I’ve carried this inside my bones. So I walk the distortion line, no flinch, no prayer, no plea to time. I carve the glow from every seam and claim what’s always been mine. Let truth arrive in jagged beams, I am the cut, I am the shine. Peel the layer, hold the nerve, steady, steady, do not swerve. Let the tension sing its note, watch the fracture gleam and curve. This is craft: the calm, the knife, the quiet art of staying alive inside the wound that makes me whole. Now I walk the distortion line rebuilt from every shard I faced. The deeper light is mine to wield, the final self no longer veiled. Through broken worlds I move unchained, what was fractured is reclaimed. I stand revealed, precise, unashamed, the distortion line. I am the cut. I am the shine.
