Here, bruise does not heal—it spasms. Sound does not sing—it splinters. Healing is not arrival—it coils sharp inside the static, buried deep in the bruised muscle of memory turned to fermentation.
It is the resistance of survival. A nest forged from bruises. A cradle stitched from electric tension and ash.
Where salt becomes scripture.
Where sound hatches inside the leaking body.
Where what survives is not the whole, but the half-formed tremble of something that refuses to be undone.
