The Snake Who Learned She Had Teeth
Before she knew what she was, the snake only knew hunger.
Not the sharp, desperate kind. Not the kind that gnaws or claws.
Her hunger was quiet. Rhythmic. A soft, endless pull.
So she followed it.
She curled inward, the way she always had, the way she always would.
Mouth finding tail. Tail finding mouth.
It was not painful.
It was not pleasant.
It simply⦠was.
And so she fed.
Not out of violence, but out of instinct.
Not out of need, but because the circle asked to be closed.
Time did not pass the way it does for other creatures. There were no days, no nightsβonly the steady, continuous motion of becoming and un-becoming, over and over again.
She did not know she was repeating.
She did not know there was anything else to do.
This is what it means to exist.
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