The symbol carved in my belly is the same one burned into your hands.
We only ever stand at right angles to one another.
The rules don’t bend to account for us.
Exceptions we except but never accept at every single goddamn turn.
Because I’m aggression and you’re defense.
I’m innocence and you’re violence.
I am woman, you are man.
I am male, you are female.
I am one, you are two.
We are both and neither, through and through.
Dicks are strong but detestable.
Pussys are weak and pathetic.
Whichever you say I am is fine, fine, fine.
Exes and Ohs. Whys and exes.
Define, convict, defend, defeat and end the enemies on the other side of you.
The perspective at which you stand is no different than this: a high precipice from which the world crumbs and bows down at your feet. And you wonder why the grass grows black as you trample it down. Stamp the mud from your shoes when you go inside. Only take them off to feel the constructed structure underneath your tender toes.
A stray rock or a splinter will splay you out, lay you down flat.
If it’s a critique we’re giving, oh we’ve got lots. If it’s arguments we’re starting and fights we’re fighting, don’t worry we’ve got gloves and defenses and rings we can take one another down in.
Is mercy and, oops, forgiveness, second chances and sym/empathy the other person(s) need(s)?
Well, then fuck ’em.
We can’t, at this stage, be put out.
Got a schedule and a tempo to keep. Don’t slow us down.
We’ll burn through the gas giants before we’re through and be out there, all alone.