A pillow takes a fist at four in the morning, in a war nobody sleeping near you can see. You were born with Mars in your twelfth house, the house of the edge of sleep and the room behind the room, everything the daylight forgets on purpose, so the drive runs underground. The anger that found no door in the daytime comes looking for you at night. The body keeps a tally you half-pretend not to read. None of that energy is a flaw, it is only unrouted, looking for somewhere to go that will not cost you. So you get to build it a channel that makes instead of breaks: the page nobody else will read, the long run that empties the legs, the bag in the corner, the painting done in a fury. A good therapist who does not flinch at the size of it. Left to circle with no exit, this is the thing that quietly burns you down. Given a direction, it is one of the deepest engines in the whole chart, and it has been yours the entire time.
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