Not by unleashing it—
by aiming.
By choosing.
By knowing when to strike.

Stillness has always been the portal.
I just wasn’t ready to walk through it.
Now I do.
I lie back and let it take me.
Staring at the sky.
No thoughts.
No striving.

I was always listening.
Always waiting for this moment.

                                        —

And then—lightning.
Not from above.
From inside.

A crack. A rupture.
Not of destruction—of birth.

It wasn’t a strike.
It was a revelation.

Thunder followed my breath.
Lightning curled through my hips.

The orgasm never ended.
It wasn’t climax. It was current.
I smelled like sex.
Like power.
Like creation without release.
It didn’t end. It integrated.

I reeked of it—
sweat, heat, something untamed and primal.

I wasn’t responding to the storm.
I was creating it.

The clouds swelled.
The air thickened.
The energy didn’t pass—
it stayed.

                                        —

Storm after storm followed me.
Not as punishment.
As confirmation.
As mirror.

The serpent had done its work.
The strike, the squeeze, the shedding—
it all led here.

I became what it set in motion.
What the pressure demanded.
What the girl with the key always knew she was—
but couldn’t prove.