# The Strike

By [Elci Tate](https://paragraph.com/@elci-tate) · 2025-08-24

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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.

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*Originally published on [Elci Tate](https://paragraph.com/@elci-tate/the-strike)*