On our battles

I believe we choose the battles we end up fighting. We know the risks, the casualties of war, and we arm ourselves well enough to only repel the blows that would surely kill us. But we need the fight, and we crave the hurt, and we taste the blood, as if we wish to take our own temperature and thankfully discover we’re not as cold as we thought we were. We cringe at the metallic taste but we don’t stop licking our wounds until we know we’ve had the last drop.

The oldest profession is not prostitution, they have it all wrong. We all are, and have always been, assassins. We kill for a price, a purpose, an end result we deify and which helps appease our conscience; even when the victim is hidden deep inside of us. We kill, and we bury, and we grow…trees of the souls we suffocated. 

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