Fine. I could tell you how my skin – its only birthmark: starless nights – is yet followed by thunder.
I could tell you how it’s always been – just me and Adam, just the missing ribs and vipers.
I could tell you how, when left alone, a country is just sapphires and nimbus clouds under UV-coated tempered glass. Like a mind, isolated.
I could tell you how, like all good lightning, I strike brightest from the ground up.
I could tell you how I own near 6 pounds of titanium that was once the closest thing I’ve known to love.
I could tell you how you and I are negatives of a blurry photograph, shot during a revolution. I, the flag, and you, the flame.
People walking barefoot on broken glass on asphalt.
I could tell you how I own near 6 pounds of titanium that I carried in my body for four pregnancies’ worth.
I could ask what use is blood being fluid if it can’t be used as gasoline.
I could tell you how when left, alone, the human is an animal leading itself to slaughter.
I could tell you that this means nothing to me. I am empire and death, bred beautiful and castle-ready.
I could tell you how time is just another skin.
The skin is just a border.
And a border the anticipation of a cut.
I could tell you how I know I will kill one day.
I could tell you the sensation of titanium on bone.
I could tell you how you are the weapon.