She said, I'm scared I'll break you, like the time I was seven and knocked my grandmother's star clean off the wall.

I am scared you will be swallowed by the black holes that I fling, the thousands of reverse births, the vases that implode on my wheel, the prayers sucked back down my throat and regurgitated as howls.

What if my God is a statue in your door, my fist a pillow at your back, my fear a well you draw from? My heart to you an open padlock, a forgotten combination.

What if my language is Braille, the non-tongue, felt and not heard, pebbles against your thumb when what you wished was a windstorm in your ear? No.

That is why, she said. Please don't ask me again.