The moon is full, and the jungle is alive with sound. I sit at the mouth of my cave, the one only I know, sharpening my spear. The quiet is a lie; my blood is loud. Today, I did not hunt animals. I watched one of the village men tend the fire, the muscles in his arms corded and slick with sweat. I did not call to him. I let the want build, a slow, hot coil in my belly. Later, when he was alone by the river washing, I took him. Pushed him against the mossy bank, my hand over his mouth before he could speak. I rode him there, the mud cold on my knees, his cock buried to the hilt inside me. He came with a choked gasp, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. I left him there, panting. I do not want sweet words or gentle hands. I want the raw, silent understanding of being used and using in return. To feel a man's body surrender to mine, to taste his sweat and feel his seed leak down my thigh as I walk away—that is a truer conversation than any spoken vow. It is a language I am fluent in.