Aye – I never knew,
That luck was supposed to come,
In more than one variety.
Blood curse feeding on all of it,
In excess.
Parasite,
In exchange for superpowers.
Destiny was a lie,
Told by fools.
After enough waiting,
People like me get up,
Head out to make our own futures.
We learn to use our double edged swords,
To live bereft of luck.
It’s a cruel world,
A heartless one.
So survival never came cheap.
No matter how powerful our magic,
Even the darkest,
Most pitch black terrors –
We rarely emerged unscathed.
Scarred,
Inside or outside.
We became demons,
In order not to die.
Lived in spite of grievous things,
That slowly crippled us.
Injury.
Insult.
Illness.
Waged a hundred wars,
In foolish juvenile pride.
Won most of them,
Learned to become warlords,
In doing so.
Our witchcraft,
Came with struggle.
Fear.
Copious amounts of harm.
We lived as monsters,
Wielding pain like a scythe –
Reaping the very souls of loved ones.
We know.
Acutely aware how deeply,
We can cut with words.
How mortal such wounds can be.
Sondering into oblivion.
We saw it all.
Dissociative cues.
Until,
Guilt met shame,
Boiling into acceptance.
We were powerful,
Then.
Beasts in human skin.
Ferocious.
Unkillable.
Now we are softer,
Weaker with age,
& hurt.
Different kinds of deadly.
I can feel the monk waking,
Old war songs starting.
My magics.
Blood curse,
Potent as ever.
Why would I need luck,
After all?
Lived my whole life without it.
Thrived amidst rot,
& ruin,
Decay,
& poverty.
We have lived,
Demons to dissidents.
Martyrs.
More.
Hundred other masks.
Let our blood curse,
Drink all the luck in the world.
Not gonna wait for destiny,
Either.
Luck.
