Each wound clinging to the steel sheath as if its existence depended upon it, and it did.
Who am I without my wounds?
My knives, my past, my story?
How does one let go of things so ugly, they never were claimed?
What if we weren't Brahman princes, but beggars with lost eyes?
The peace is as much my birthright as anyone else.
It must be done.
The knives must be pulled.
Pulled.
And the sucking sound from attached flesh will sing, and the self will scream, and speak with a thousand tongues, and Mara will dance on my ashes, but I will stay here.
I will pull and pull and stay in this breath.
Stay as I stand before my teachers and feel all the anxiety and disgust of a dark and violent past.
I will breathe and whisper "who is it that fears?" and watch myself melt like a sigh.
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