At this point I’m so warrior, if I see you as other than adversary, it’s a blessing. “I’m a soldier, in my mind”, or so the Everywhere song goes. I’ve got a rifle on my shoulder and a pistol in my holster and I can’t calm down. All I really want is to stand strong, but I lack a confidence that I compensate for with a bowl of hypervigilant Wheaties every morning.  These metaphors, these weapons that I slash out at the world  with to protect my measly bit of territory around my body, leave me as Sir Sly says it, ‘going, going, going gone’ at the slightest threat. I’m a one man army and my allies are all uneasy handshakes and wry smiles. No kings to help rule with me, no successor to take over the land–all lovers are just deserters.

I don’t know why
I ever tried to fight for my own path
I must be out of my mind

But I’ll go to hell and back because I love that path. I’m a revolutionary for my own goddamn spirit, my own vision. Che Guevera can whisper sweet nothings in my mind via headphones and I’ll masturbate to the feeling of a clear focus. And I can feed myself with the manna of my own words, drink the blood of my encounters for drink (drunk on my own fear), and I can pick up myself up the fire when the world clips my wings to ‘teach me a lesson’. Just, don’t, ask me to be a lover–I’ll leave you right on the battlefield.

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