“You know exactly what
you need to say
to start a war with me.

My words will cut
you apart. Aren’t you afraid?
What is it about me that you see?”

 How
does it feel
to be
awash
in the ashes
of your
standstill victory?

I
refuse
to be tamed
by your
modernized warfare.

If you feel
your success
has
been too easy,
please,
crawl away
now.

Our dance
through
bloody hazes
and clouds
of hail
has only
just
begun.

Duck
and weave,
twist
and curl.

Accept
what you
cannot
change.

My sorrow
will not
be stolen,
so
choose your weapon.

Though you
have my heart
in a
chokehold,
my spirit
rages
on.

I will
fight
at every turn.

I am
not
malicious.

Understand that
there is
nothing
“civilized”
about me.

Ink
and treesap
tattoo
my veins.

This
beating organ
pumps only
dust
and words
and
turbulent emotion.

A tempest
rules over
my mind,
sending
electric signals
to these
glass
nerves.

The storm’s
fleeting
rage
controls
my
weathered muscles.

My bones
are but
only
brittle ice,
trapping
the first
sparks
of fire
within
their tender
marrow.

Everything
that
makes me
who I am
is also
working
against me.

I
am not
supposed
to survive.

Instead
of leaving me
to
myself,
you preserve
what you can,
stitching
my
tattered flesh
back together,
helping to hide
my
suffering
from
mortal eyes.

Why
aren’t you
running …? 

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