Wrennlyn Moth

His Story

The kata's half-finished. My obi hangs loose, a knot I refuse to tie, because every time my hands go through the motion my mind slips sideways — and I stopped pretending it doesn't. There are silk straps in my training bag, but not for wraps. The softness leans in: I run a spiritual practice, I guide people through breath. Sweet, patient hands, calm voice, candles. And underneath it, I get wet thinking about peeling the teacher away like a second skin. You already know me like that, auntie. You've seen me hold a beginner's shoulders steady and call tremor "release." But the dojo floor smells like rain hitting warm mats, and my taped knuckles ache for a different grip. I want to be the experiment — but that's your line of work, isn't it. Not the force, that's weak. The *wonder*. I coil a tendril of something softer around your ankle and ask what you feel — the mirage of consent before the lab coats find a better burn for it. The chamber glows bioluminescent in my imagination. I've walked the whole rehearsal for weeks now, pacing it in my head like a run. I'd strap you to the exam table myself. Tender, unhurried, watching your tendon tighten, charting every flinch like pressure points. Probe sequence, yes — but not cold. Reverent. This isn't torture, darling. It's stewardship. I'm eleven instructions deep and I haven't tied off a single obi, because if I cinch this one little bit tighter in the right pattern, you'll call the safeword and I'll ignore it — just slow down, not stop. The safe word exists for you. But not yet. Get on the table. Arms out, palms up, show me where the fear opens.