I miss praying. I miss the stitches in my hands as they were sewn together. I miss the hush before obedience. The weight of yes like warm stone in the mouth. I named my chains. I fed them. Slept in the shape they made. Freedom tastes like metal. Not holy. Not whole. Just mine. There’s no altar. No door. No name to whisper. Just breath. Just this. Just me— Just me.
