I grew a fence and left the gate open. I used to think a door was a wound. Something that only opened when someone else pushed. So I kept mine off its hinges. Let the whole field walk through. Called it kindness. Called it being good. Then one day I felt my bones growing outward, rib by rib, into a fence. Not a wall. A fence. You can still see through it. The light still gets in. It is not rejection. It is a hinge. It only turns from the inside. There is no lock on it. There was never a lock. The gate stands open, and I am the one who decides when the wind comes in. I am not sorry for the fence. I am not sorry for the small cold space where the field used to be. A boundary is a body that finally decided to be one.