I am connecting my bones from the red earth of my throat / of my tongue.
Beware I am a hurricane, boys are not made men in my presence. Girls are not made queens in my rooms.
Cross my bowls of blood on the wrong cliff and the very knees that brought you to me will
I cannot make you a man nor a queen if you approach me with the art of manipulation.
I require the complex math of Truth.
Map your sacred ceremony of lies elsewhere