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THE LAST PERSON WHO CALLED me by my true name was my mother, with her dying breath.
And then they cut her throat and they took my name.
My body remembers—even when the rest of me forgets—that I am not made for curtsying.
“Today is done, the time has come for little birds to fly. Tomorrow is near, the time is here for old crows to die.”
Is it better to have your life ended by someone who hates you or someone who loves you?
Because I am not all right. I am a hurricane barely contained in skin.
The hope inside me is not smothered yet. It is dying, yes, with only a few embers left. But I’ve seen fires rekindled with less.
Houzzah, god of fire, would keep us warm. Suta, goddess of water, would surround our island and protect us. Ozam, god of air, would keep us healthy. Glaidi, goddess of earth, would keep us fed.
He is not the same person to me that he was when we stepped onto this boat tonight, and I don’t think there’s any going back to how things were before.
I don’t answer and he doesn’t press me, but I know his patience won’t last. He’ll want an answer soon, and I don’t know if I can give him one.
“We are not defined by the things we do in order to survive. We do not apologize for them,” she says quietly, eyes never leaving mine. “Maybe they have broken you, but you are a sharper weapon because of it. And it is time to strike.”
I am angry. I am hungry. And I promise myself that one day I will watch them all burn.
