You don’t see the lust for violence because you are blinded by love.
Though you insist I must disappear the day an iron fist is raised to me, you are blinded by adoration’s smoke screen when a like hand is raised to you.
It is because it is in your own house, that the fist that threatens to punch you is doused in invisibility’s cloak. This hand is from your flesh and blood and so it is bespoke and not akin to the screen with smoke.
But I see right through its transparency. I watch it gleam, threaten to slice your head clean, I know that if those fingers clutched a knife it would beam silver and blood.