The blood in my veins isn’t made
From soft, pretty nets of stars:
Do not describe me with your pale words:
lilies, roses, and sunlight.
These are temporary treasures with a soft touch.
I am an ironwork of needles.
A simple collection of plated armor and rusting chains,
grinding gears catching on dust and dirt and scars.
I will walk through fire and emerge polished and sharp.
I am dented and tarnished and still,
Even my most damaged pieces
Are built to draw blood.