The first blow surprises. It doesn't scar. The first blow bruises. My soul, now, purple and green and tender. But the first blow is just that. The first.
The names are loud, adjectives. Definitions, images, pictures. A portrait of my unworthiness. Those names, those names are daggers and arrows. The aim, precise. In the mirror, I'm Dorian Gray. No reflection, no beat. Just definitions. Acceptance and shame.
There is time. There is change. There is death. Calm and stale. And putrid air. And skeletons of what I once was. A proper name I don't answer for. But mostly, and always, there are storms. Storms, always brewing. Storms, always raging. Internal, volatile, unpredictable. Personal hurricanes in the desert. Impossible. And everything within is sand and heat and tearless. No shelter.
And aliases, and bruises, and hurt and scars so deep and invisible, all become my truths. Topography of hundreds of blows and come backs and fatigue.
Vices are many, I try a few. I want them. I want to be anything but this self I'm not. Take away the burden of being me, it's a plea. Blades were supposed to be my relief, a life line, a feel. But they are just messy. Nonsensical. Shallow cuts on a skin so callused. Superficial marks of an intangible pain. Tinting my skin, they touch no deep.
Crimson fingertips, furious, profane. Keyboards and phrases. And words, many words rapping my life in periods and metric and stances. Poetry.
Discovery and acceptance and, maybe, vulnerability. Poetry. And I mumble my name. I have a name. Strange sound, welcome sound. A proper name. A warrior's signature.
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