cross-guards underneath ribs
bones fall apart under the pressure of hope
some things cannot be as precious as a rebellion
some things like breath come second
mother, I am thirty and I still do not
understand why you did what you did
I still cut out marks in walls because I am
lonely even with the knife between my teeth
there are sparks burning through your skin
and some circuitry flashing in your soul as
you fall and I wonder if once again you will
curse at me with 'darth vader' on your lips
this is a new age I am a new soul you are
old and worn and you are pointless with your
crown made of burnt skin and the ashes of pilots
that are too young too privileged too misled
give up before you spill more blood with your orders
at least I know that I am a ruthless person with
blood in my mouth while you sit there and cry
and it is your fault let the past die
mother, I am thirty and I want to kill you
I want to see blood pour and I want to see
your jedi girl holding my hand and your
husband losing faith on my sword
this is not light and dark or good and bad or
rebellion and first order no it is your fault
with your black and white and strict moral code
you will die with an army on your conscience
[and I will sit here with my cross-guard and your soul]