Originally posted 12/12/2011.
War
can make my blood
sing a little.
I know myself
and the animal somewhere
within.
If I pet it the right rough way
now and then,
it stays quiet — mostly.
I’m at peace with my bloodsong.
I do not deem it necessary
to pretend I cannot hear it,
and I do not deny
that war is a part of me.
It has settled on my hands
as tightly as skin,
snuggled cozily
in my mouth,
and my blood
bursts scarlet from my wounds
as if it were the chorus of a grand opera,
glorying as much
in being shed as I do
in my potential to shed it.
Revile me for that
as you will — I will be
your paradox: at peace
with not becoming
the hypocrite who turns away
from the sludge he carries inside.
Dark Matter 
March 1st, 2015 at 5:34 pm
Yes! The first time I got in touch with that primal desire to attack, to best, to stomp into pieces, to kill, it scared me to death. I was a small, decent, middle-aged, people pleasing, mother and grandmother. It scared me so, because it was such a heady experience that I knew it could be addictive. I had spent most of my life feeling vulnerable and fearful. This new feeling was power. It totally wiped out fear. No guilt, no quarter, no thought of consequences, pure violence.
I’ve learned to live with it safely in a recessed dark corner of my conscious. No guilt, no fear, no ambiguity…..it’s part of me and it’s there if I ever need it.