We're both creatures of war.
You are the offensive, the instigator, the catalyst. You represent the match that starts the forest fire of destruction. Or rather… you represent the person who lit the match; the persona who finds pleasure in the chaos the flame brings. You're the man who'll shoot in an open street and start martial law. You'd be that man to seduce a woman of another man's belonging and start political dismay. You'd be the maniac terrorist who'd hold people hostage… and after gathering your ransom, kill them anyway just to see the horror in their faces. You're the inmate who'll provide weapons for the future gang fight. You're the drug dealer whom sells on both sides of the urban strife. You're the commander who kidnaps the children of your fallen enemies.
Your joy is disorder, your blood made from that which is spilled from others. You feed from the ugliness of war.
You don't die. You can't die. They'll always be that one person who'll start it all. And because they'll always be war, you'll always be around. Even if you were to perish, your downfall would be short lived, brief, and by the turn of a century, decade, etc... you'll arise again to reclaim your rule for centuries more.
I'm no different than you.
I'm the offended, the victim, the casualty. I'm the burning tree in that forest fire of destruction; the wildlife unable to escape. I'm the one fallen from the first bullet you let loose in that open street. I'm that woman who you seduced and that man who's facing political scandal. I'm the hostage you held at gun point in front of millions of people… and promptly pulled the trigger upon after your money was delivered. I'm the neutral inmate serving his time peacefully until I was stabbed by a makeshift knife. I'm the spouse suffering under the abuse of a drug-addicted partner. I'm the child conditioned to kill every day.
My psyche –my very being- is disturbed. My blood is pure, yet I'm covered in disorder. I'm created from the ugliness of war.
I'm what you feed from. Yet without your catalyst, I cannot exist. I die over and over again, but as long as there are innocent and naïve souls, I will be reborn to be struck down again. Though, I'm far from the white yang to your dark yin.
While you are the sadist, I, in my very nature, am the masochist.
I don't feel alive without the stab of your violence within me, whether it's by your metallic blade or the length of your piercing girth. I'm not complete without the seduction of your voice guiding me down to hell as you disfigure my body and mangle my insides. I'm not me without you… and you're nothing without me. I need war, even if I perish.
So guide your lamb to slaughter. It's the promise of war, the foreshadowing of death, which gives me the drive to fight, kicking and screaming, even if no hope is in sight. I prefer my world cloaked in your darkness.