The War isn’t Over

She knew the war wasn’t over.

It had been fought for decades, and it will be fought for decades.

She knew couldn’t lay down her sword.

She couldn’t lift her blood-caked hands in surrender for it was the blood of her sisters,

The blood of her kind as they died in her arms,

Begging in their final moments for her to continue the fight.

There weren’t many of them left, she knew.

Many had turned a blind eye and many had gone to hide.

But if she stopped fighting, she knew she would never know rest.

Worry would plague her mind asking her, “Which one of your sisters is next?”


He knew the war wasn’t close to being over.

He had been fighting them from within for decades.

It was the heavy duty of his father who had gotten it from his own father.

Sometimes, he wondered how different things would be if the fathers of his kind had taught them well.

But he didn’t have time to wallow in his thoughts.

On his shoulders lay the thousands of insults from his fellow brothers,

“Feminine,” they would grunt.

“Weak!” they always yelled.

But they are the ones weak for all the atrocities they committed.

He will not bow to their wills,

Not in a thousand years.

He will always speak up;

He isn’t a coward like them.


I see him fighting.

He is bold.

I see her fighting,

She is strong.

No matter what battles come our way,

We will never stop fighting what is wrong.






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