A line of trodden grass runs from the old wound to the wild edge of the field where the fence gives out, and the gate hangs unlatched. Chiron, the centaur whose limp became its teaching, makes a sextile to Lilith, the Black Moon at the lunar apogee, the refused self living past the boundary. The opening waits, never grabs at you. Let the hurt walk out to where you were once cast off, and the cut starts to learn the language of the thing they exiled, both of them plainer for the meeting. The gate moves only under your hand: the day you stop nursing the scar indoors and let it stand face to face with the part of you that never asked permission to exist.
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