They're Not Battle Scars. "They're not battle scars," she says, Tears flowing, cheeks curved, In a most hideous, bittersweet expression. "Do not celebrate me," she tells, Her vague acquaintances, Who follow and worship her harming. "Treat yourself as you would another," she explains, Placing her blade on the table, And taking a step back. "You decide when it stops hurting." She preached.

#life And Death #life and Death were madly in love. #life was beautiful and made everything stunningly brilliant in it's presence. Death destroyed everything it touched; everything that was beautiful bowed in it's mere presence. Death did not want this, but it couldn't control it - facts could not be changed. Death was beautiful too, in it's own way. Beautiful like a forrest fire; to be admired from a distance. Now, whilst Death and #life could not be together, they could not stay away. Because of this, #life would send Death gifts in the form of living creatures, naming this event after it's soul mate. This way, death is not the loss of someone, but they are a gift.