Scarline

You see the world

through gray bitter lenses

always in retrograde,

carrying the nine of swords,

and a backpack

full of condemnation.

You sit idling,

wondering why you're never

getting anywhere -

but you refuse to drop the baggage,

won't unclench your white knuckled grip

from the wheel you let rust,

because rage

only feels holy

if you swallow it whole.

You were born soft,

but never allowed to be,

forced to clash,

screaming into armor,

baptized in the clang

of your parents' thunder

that only ever allowed silence

to respond.

And now?

Now you wait

for someone to draw first blood,

to cut into your lane,

to wear their hair wrong,

to set a boundary against your scarline,

so you can give yourself permission,

to finally swing

your swords of three-edge sorrow

at anything that dares to gently breathe.