It's all an illusion.
Blood-dripping daggers of bitterness stabbed through our own souls feel like power in our clawing hands. Power to spread the pain, to pierce other hearts. We're holding the end, gripping on the wielded weapon of anger, enthroned in the kingdom of pain, but all the while bleeding to death.
Unassailable...god-like in our anger, we feel only the sneering burn of wickedness coursing power through our veins.
....Until we catch our reflection in the gleam of dagger flying.
What's that form? There's only a scorched human there. Dying and scarred. Pale, thin, and weak.
We frown, confused. We didn't know the fierce flames were only burning our skin. We didn't notice the way the blood dripped down and pooled around our feet, wasted drops of life still pouring from the wound that started it all.
Gaping wide open, we must face it now. The choice.
Press on and die, keep fighting till the last drop falls with the end of breath.....or admit wounded defeat.....and heal.
Be weak....and live.
Suddenly it's not power surging through vessels, but pain.
Searing, stinging, aching, screaming.
Now it's only blood we see. Ours. Leaking out of deep gashes inflicted.
We had no power to stop them.
Fear trickles in, gaining momentum.
Without this bitter blade, I cannot protect myself.
Without anger, I am only flesh.
Skin and lungs and heart.
Pierced, open to attack.
But with this weapon, no one can get close.
Close enough to save me.
I need saved.
Deep breath, and let it go.
Open palm and let the dripping, ragged dagger clang to the ground.
Collapse, blood soaked.
But something new is trickling in...
Relief. In the veins. Cooling the burning hot of bitter blood.