Enough
by Crystal Craig

Talk.
Talk.
Talk.

Mouths open.
Gnawing at ghosts.
Old bones boiled down to gray broth,
poured down my throat by hands that swear,
“This is healing.”

I swallow.
Choke.
Taste ash. Salt. Bile.
And still—they whisper: Again.

I have eaten my memories raw.
Picked them clean.
Licked the pith bare
until I can’t tell what’s mine
and what is scripted,
hollow,
rehearsed—
to make them comfortable.

Acid seeps through me,
a river eroding my edges,
hissing:

Exposed.
Revealed.
Dissolving.

Enough.

The bowl flies.
Shatters.
What drains away,
what streaks the wall,
what swirls into the sink—
is not mine anymore.

No more talk.
No more talk.

My body wants fire.
It wants wind.
Dirt ground deep into my palms,
the tide pulling hard at my heels.

It wants to tear apart
every tight, suffocating layer of memory.
To split open the shells
where his hands stole my air.
Where every breath
was bargained for,
denied.
Where my voice was buried alive.

Set loose the stolen breaths.
Let them uncoil.
Sink to earth.
Scatter to wind.

And the body moves.
Not pretty.
Not planned.

Movement as invocation.
The body, the altar.
Breath, the drum.
Every reach, a spell.
Every collapse, a prayer.
Every sigh, an exorcism.

No maps.
No rules.
Only unraveling.
Only earth,
alive beneath me,
throbbing through my bones
until every barrier
softens.
Melts.

And in that hush—

She stirs.
The wolf.
Her spine ripples like smoke.
Her jaws part.

No roar.
No words.

Only breath.
Slow.
Ragged.
Alive.

And she rises,
feral and silent,
leaving my ghosts behind.