Weaponry.

You don’t know me but I know your fire. 

You don’t know me but I’ve had the same desire. 

We are cut from the same chunk of sky. An inferno melted us, hardened us, stoked us into multi-colored eyes. 

I broke on the anvil and was cast into something stronger. More resilient. They can’t find a weapon that can best me and you’re still getting bent. 

Drop back into fire and let it mold you into steely blades. Stop crying over hammers and iron and let yourself be better remade. 

You came to me once begging for sharper steel. You hated me once for having the exact same feel. 

He’s a novice, he can’t wield my blade. He fumbles and falls, unsure of the grip or how to hide his mistake. 

He’ll falter with your brittle hilt loose in his hands. He’ll break the pommel and look less and less like a man. 

We are from the same inferno. You, too, can be a weapon if you’d let him go. We need warriors who aren’t afraid of our blades to hold. 

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