No one warned me
becoming would taste of metal—

breath pressed through plastic,
a small blue lung in my hand,
my borrowed breath—
as if I could pocket oxygen
and call it courage.

The house ticks
like a quiet animal.
The kettle settles—
that soft, satisfied hush—
so I breathe;
so I count;
so I exist.

At the stairs
I watch the distance change.

On better days
it is twelve steps.


On hungry days
it is a hillside,
switchbacks
and thin air.

Either way, I rise—
hand to rail,
floorboard grain beneath my toes,
the wood remembering me.

And when sleep slips from me, I look upward.
The stars hold their distance,
velvet dark draped between us…

the space between us comforting.

and my breath answers the sky
as it it remembers—

between the stars
isn’t empty.

It is a landing,
half-lit—
the square of carpet
where I pause
and plan the next rise.

It is the wet of my lungs
saying stay with me,
a pulse refusing to bargain.

Beneath the moon,

the wolf inside me answers—
her breath a vow, her head unbowed.

Not armour—
animal.
Not teeth-for-war—
teeth-for-truth.

She is the part of me
that never learned to curtsey.


She pads the perimeter
of my ribs
and says without words:
remember.

I loved the woman I was,
but I am not returning
to her house.

Her keys rattle
like fossils.
The door is gone;
the field is here—

cool chain at my collarbone,
instinct bright as frost.

Listen—

there is an honesty
only the dark can bear:


I am frightened.
I am furious.
I am not finished.

I choose my breath


and look at what answers closer:
steam ghosting from the spout,
a rail warm under my palm,
the small blue sky
I press to my lips,


the low growl inside
that knows when to rest,
when to rise.

Between the stars
is not a void.

It is a threshold
where names moult—

where the wolf in me
paces the edge of the old map,

unwilling to heel,
still healing.

I hold the breath
that holds me.

At the turning point,
my jaw tightens—
resolve is a physical thing.

So I take the road
like breath:

in / out,
count / climb,
pause / continue—

feral
and faithful
at once.

I will not be reduced

to the space between things.

I will widen
until the space
is me.

I choose my breath,
and it chooses me—
face toward the unwritten edge.

When I speak
the new name—

you will not just hear it.
You will feel

the floorboards
answer.