The war we’ve been born into where our first crying breath is a bruise that never heals.
Some use their wounds to flower the blood, others carve their pain into stones and go on the attack.
Touch, turmoil, tango: a counter-clockwise dance leading us in and out of love.
Throats offering shelter for song-chakra while also making themselves just the right shape and size for strangling.
The war we’ve been born into where enemies are created by our simply being.
Others stand boldly on the frontlines, scar their lips with light, speak only peace.
RichRant 