We all carry our homemade weapons with us. The everyday items that, when against the wall, we flick out and stab others with.
My intellect instantly becomes arrogance; wit, sarcasm; focus, aggression. Faster than the blink of a teary eye. It's parta why I don't curse - that's just gas on a fire.
At some point in every relationship, you got that split-second choice on whether or not to draw those weapons. Once those daggers come out, man, there's no going back. There's no putting toothpaste back inna tube.
A monster, No. 6 once said of me. We'd such a bloody end; I said things no one should ever say. Then again, so did she. Just spoke to her not that long ago. My fine handiwork's still in her voice.
Cause I'm the skillest with my sharp objects. The killest with my blunt instruments.
Every fencer knows to take care when drawing. Cause you're always just as likely to cut yourself as your adversary. I don't recall a time I ever drew first and didn't cut myself more. Not once. And I'm never unarmed.
The skillest and killest. It's a horrid gift.
A different girlie:
Music: another evil force tellin' me to do what I gotta do