I’ve got my mouth.
It’s a weapon. It’s a bombshell. It’s a cannon. I’ve got my words.
I won’t give them mercy. Mercy. I’ve got my words. I hope they hurt you.
I hope they scar you. I hope they heal you.
I hope they cut you open, make you see
you’ve been warring for all the wrong reasons.
Make you see that some things are worth bruising for.
Make you see that your name is your honor code.
Make you see that your hands you’re accounted for.
Pick and choose where your sweat and your blood will go.
Make you see your life’s not to be lived alone.
Run their spit through your hair, you’re worth nothing. Nothing.
But I’d long ago learned not to be picky in farewells. They weren’t guaranteed or promised.
You were lucky, more than blessed, if you got a good-bye at all.
