This isn’t fabric.It’s history.It’s obedience carved into bone.It’s Giovanni’s voice muttering scripture into my blood.It’s kneeling in red and calling it holy.It’s being shaped into something useful instead of something alive.
I clamp my hands around it.
It’s supposed to release neatly. There’s a clasp. A ceremonial surrender built for decor, not defiance.
I pull.
It doesn’t give.
Of course it doesn’t.
I tighten my grip and yank again, tendons in my forearms singing as pressure bites into my throat. The collar digs in like a parasite, like it knows it’s starving.
So did my father.
My jaw locks.
Then I tear at it.
Hard.Ugly.No prayer in it.
The snap is wrong.
Not clean.Not dignified.
It breaks like a joint tearing loose. Like something with a pulse just split inside me.
A brutal sound—fabric, plastic, years of obedience giving way all at once.
It doesn’t fall free.
One edge clings to my throat like it still thinks it owns me.
Good.Let it hurt.
I rip it the rest of the way off and fling it across the steps.
It lands with a thin, brittle click.
Small sound.Big funeral.
I stare at the wreckage.
This worthless identity.This borrowed name.This lie I wore like skin.
The priest is dead.
Not someday.Not slowly.
Now.
Something in my chest fractures open, and what pours out isn’t shame.Not fear.Not even grief anymore.
It’s release.
Sharp.Bright.Ugly.
Freedom soaked in rage.
