Self-Control
My silver tongue can be pretty sharp.
Dull slashes don't usually bother me,
but the repetitive action becomes a blunt force.
Bruises I cannot tolerate even on iron skin.
My forge reaches unexpected highs.
I get my blade ready for war.
So much furry, so much hate.
Instead of killing my enemy,
I perform.
I swallow the sword with full conviction
because murder makes me tremble,
and I don't like the smell of blood.
I consume the steel not to be consumed by guilt.