Overview

Before language, before the first city rose from the mud of some great river, before gods were named and vows were carved into clay, there was pain. And pain drew lines. It mapped the body with invisible ink, claimed territories that no treaty could reclaim, established borders that no army of reassurance could ever breach. A child learns this early. A child who watches a door close and does not hear footsteps returning. A child who learns to translate silence into absence, absence into evidence, evidence into the terrible mathematics of unworthiness. The equation is simple: They left because I was not enough to stay for. The map begins as a small thing. A faint line here, at the base of the throat, where the words I love you too were swallowed before they could escape. A delicate tracing there, across the ribs, where hope once nested and then flew south for a winter that never ended. A deeper etching around the heart, a moat really, designed to keep armies at a safe distance.

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