There is a whisper of a god beneath my bones aching, ancient hands grasping to birth itself from my wreckage. I jostle it back between the horrors tucked under my heart. 'Perhaps this is what it means to have a body?' Its voice hoarse from years of neglect, When I tell it 'no' I hear nothing. The muffled groans of a god are not silenced so easily. 'I must find my body, you must give me what is mine.' 'I will give you nothing.' 'Not yet,' it hisses, mauling the forgotten pieces of me: abuse and fury, slick on its tongue. Soon I shake with rage, curses sprouting from runaway lips: 'I will give you nothing more.' It is then, I decide to r