pacifist

I am not a pacifist.

I didn't want someone else to tell me who my enemy was or who my friends were.

So I said the fighting was wrong.

Sometimes, I was tired. I was too tired from surviving, from getting along in this cage of a society.

And, other times, many other times I was afraid.

They did not tell us so many stories of rebels. We were not to understand that others had fought back.

And I thought I was alone. And that made me afraid.

But although I had reasons and I had excuses, I was never a pacifist.

My heart burned at injustice. My eyes flashed at betrayal.  My voice shook and I wept and my true nature could be seen down there in that place we have not given over.

I am not a pacifist.

My sword may not cleanly remove a head, but that doesn't mean I'm not taking it out.

My hammer may miss the mark when I throw, but that doesn't mean I showed mercy.

My whip may not crack the right skin, and maybe it flies back in my face, but I won't be keeping her silent out of that caution.

Durga burned those fuckers alive and sent them to the hell they created out of her fury.

And she lives in me too.

I am not a pacifist.