This Battlefield Called Love

 

It begins like a tsunami, quiet and still, while underneath we distort slowly. Then the shouting erupts. The anger bouncing off walls onto the floor and back into our mouths. We regurgitate it, spit it back out as daggers, hoping this time we won’t miss. Hoping this time we hit something that hurts, so we can glow in the victory that we have won this argument.

We have won this war.

Our breathing slows, our hearing clears, our eyes open. The tsunami retreats and we see so vividly the destruction we have left on each other. The bruises run deep, our guilt runs deeper, and now the room splatters with the ache of our pain.

I claw my self-esteem off the floor, and we try to pick up the pieces as though we are not broken. We hug and we kiss and we say ‘sorry this wasn’t me, this wasn’t us’. And we make believe this isn’t who we are, here in this battlefield called love.

But the room is still red from the wounds, and even when we close our eyes the scene penetrates through our lids.

You whisper ‘I’m sorry’ but the words sting in the open cuts you have created. Your arms become the plaster that holds me together. We paint smiles across our faces, wrap ourselves as far into each other as we can go. Forgiveness comes in temporary waves of lust. We manoeuvre the bullet holes, make believe we are lovers on the hardwood floor, with guilt dripping from our lips.

Forgiveness comes in temporary waves of lust as we manoeuvre the bullet holes, make believe we are lovers on the hardwood floor, with guilt still dripping from our lips.

Photo Credit: Salaam Muhammad.

 

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